Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

Then he fired off a whiff : Fat Bill gave a sniff : “ There’s a curious sort of a scent ! ” Alas for Fat Bill ! Such a nosegay may kill ! Those words were the last that he uttered ; While Bowles gave a laugh like a cunt-stricken calf : “ Will you have them with Bovril, or buttered ? ” Alas ! The luck’s ill ! The house smashed like Fat Bill, And went arse over tip like a lamp ; While the rest of us asked : — “ Are our brains over-tasked ? There’s an odour here ! Can it be damp ? ” Our souls went with Bowles to the heavenly goals But we asked at the end of the tunnel : — “ Is this No. Seven ? Or can it be heaven ? ” He said : — “ I am God and not Stannl.” We begged the Lord’s pardon — walked round in his garden : “This bower don’t smell nice ; I’ll destroy it.” “ The mistake’s on Thy part ! It’s only my fart ! I hope J. and the Ghost will enjoy it.” [124]