Wednesday, April 20, 2011

The 420 Steps, Dept.

So, last year on this date, I riffed on the cannabine associations of April 20.  Sophomoric prattle, really; terms like "rolling a fatty" and "torching a tenement tiki" being bandied about like a teenager's first pair of breasts.  And, certainly, there was a reference to a certain Austrian paperhanger's natal day.  How could there not have been?  But, the tone, I felt, was a low one.

So, instead, I thought today to honor the day with a bit of poetry.  Not my own, mind you.  That's so elevated in tone, it would bleach the tabs on either side of me in your browser.  No, something a bit more traditional.  Folk poetry, perhaps?  There's something invariably noble and grounded about the people's creative product, isn't there?  Well, let's see...what would be nice...?  Oh!  Yes.  This'll do.  This'll do nicely.

And so, without further ado, I offer for your delectation that family favorite, "The Ball of Inverness":

The Ball of Inverness

Four and twenty virgins,
Came down from Inverness,
And when the ball was over,
There were four and twenty less.

Singing balls to your father,
Your arse against the wall,
If you've never been fucked on a Saturday night,
You'll never be fucked at all.

Four and twenty prostitutes,
Came up from Gloccamore,
And only one went home that night,
And she was double-bore.

The village plumber he was there,
He felt an awful fool,
He'd come eleven leagues or more,
And forgot to bring his tool.

Sandy McPherson he came along,
It was a bloody shame.
He fucked a lassie forty times,
And wouldna take her haim.

Mrs. O'Malley she was there,
She had the crowd in fits,
A-jumping off the mantelpiece,
And landing on her tits.

The minister's wife was at the ball,
A-sitting in the front,
A wreath of flowers 'round her ass,
A carrot up her cunt.

Father Feeney he was there,
And in the corner he sat,
Amusing himself, abusing himself
And catching it in his hat.

The Parson's daughter she was there,
The cunning little runt,
With poison ivy up her arse,
And thistle up her cunt.

The Vicar's wife she drank beer,
Back up against the wall,
"Put your money on the table boys,
I'm fit to do ye all".

The Vicar and his lovely wife,
Were having lots of fun,
The Parson had his finger,
Up another lady's bum.

The vicar's daughter she was there,
Getting very merry,
Swinging from the chandelier
And peeing in the sherry

The Queen was in the parlor,
Eating bread and honey,
The King was in the chambermaid,
And she was in the money.

First lady forward,
Second lady back,
Third lady's finger,
Up the fourth lady's crack.

The bride was in the kitchen,
Explaining to the groom.
The vagina, not the rectum,
Is the entrance to the womb.

The groom was in the parlor,
Explaining to his bride.
The penis, not the scrotum,
Is the part that goes inside.

The village magician he was there,
Doing his favorite trick,
Pulling his foreskin over his head,
And vanishing up his dick.

The village cripple he was there,
He wasn't up too much,
He lined them up against the wall
And fucked them with his crutch.

Now farmer Giles he was there,
His sickle in his hand,
And when he swung the blade around,
He circumcised the band.

Giles he played a dirty trick,
We cannot let it pass,
He showed his lass his mighty prick,
Then shoved it up her ass.

Farmer Brown he was there,
A' jumping on his hat,
For half an acre of his corn
Was fairly fucking flat.

Officer O'Malley he was there,
The pride of all the force.
They found him in the stable,
Wanking off his horse.

The chimney sweep he was there,
They had to throw him out,
For every time he farted,
The room was filled with soot,

The village builder he was there,
He brought his bag of tricks,
He poured cement in all the holes,
And blunted all the pricks.

Little Jimmy he was there,
The leader of the choir,
He hit the balls of all the boys,
To make their voices higher.

Little Tommy he was there,
He was only eight,
He was too small for the women,
So he had to masturbate.

The village doctor he was there,
He had his bag of tricks,
And in between the dances,
He was sterilizing pricks.

The doctor's daughter she was there,
She went to gather sticks.
She couldna find a blade of grass,
For cunts and standing dicks.

The village postman he was there,
The poor man had the pox,
He couldna fuck the lassies,
So he fucked the letter box.

The village shepherd he was there,
And he began to weep,
All these willing women,
And not a single sheep.

The local harlot she was there,
A lay'in on the floor,
And every time she spread her legs,
The vacuum shut the door.

There was fucking in the haystacks,
Fucking in the ricks,
You couldna hear the music,
for the rustling of the pricks.

And when the ball was over,
Everyone confessed,
They all enjoyed the dancing,
But the fucking was the best.

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