I sat in a punt at Twickenham,
I've sat at Hampton Wick in 'em.
I hate sea boats, I'm sick in 'em--
The man, I, Tom, and Dick in 'em.
Oh, gentles! I've been pickin 'em.
For bait, the man's been stickin 'em
(Cruel!) on hooks with kick in 'em
The small fish have been lickin 'em.
And when the hook was quick in 'em,
I with my rod was nickin 'em,
Up in the air was flickin 'em.
My feet so cold, kept kickin 'em.
We'd hampers, with aspic in 'em,
Sandwiches made of chicken, 'em
We ate, we'd stone jars thick, in 'em
Good liquor; we pic-nic-ing 'em
Sat: till our necks a rick in 'em
We turned again t'wards Twickenham.
And paid our punts, for tickin 'em
They don't quite see at Twickenham.
THE ART OF CONVERSATION
British Tourist (to fellow-passenger, in mid-Channel). "Going across, I suppose?"
