Talking rubbish on facebook, the concept of the 'great musical prune' was born. A challenge was set. I responded in doggerel form because, well, why not...
The Great Musical Prune
Roll up, roll up,
the Great Musical Prune,
throw him a farthing,
he’ll sing you a tune.
Make it a sixpence
his wrinkles will quiver,
he’ll spit out his stone
and strike chords on a zither.
Flush like it’s pay-day?
Well, bung him a shilling,
his dried plummy vocals
a laxative filling.
A florin or half-crown,
he’ll manifest bacon,
a devil on horseback
that you’ve just awakened.
A sovereign pound
and he’ll stew your compote,
his orchestral manoeuvres
now sticky and hot.
But if it’s a guinea,
beware of a quarrel,
he loosens not only bowels
but bras, knees and morals.
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