This metrical maestro's one of the few
whose nonsense is worthy of note,
whose youthful pen drew the odd stuffed cockatoo
but older pen famously wrote
of Owl and Pussy-cat's boating nights,
rather ungrateful for sure!
Why not a parrot? A parrot, by rights
the man's beautiful bright blue macaw,
macaw,
macaw,
the man's beautiful bright blue macaw.
He gave up the fight with his worsening sight,
left Knowsley Hall to the birds,
he eased his depressions with long painting sessions
and tuned a productive string: words--
furthered the trick of the slick limerick,
wrote music and surreal prose −
but time would suggest his poems are best
and the Dong is the greatest of those,
of those,
of those,
and the Dong is the greatest of those.
With older bones chilling, not short of a shilling:
“I need warmer weather.” he said.
“Winter blows bitterly, Edward needs Italy,
he wants sunshine, with views of the Med” −
where often alone the sad San Remoan
still pushed a quill pen in lampoon,
till broken by loss of his short-tailed cat Foss,
he doodled his final cartoon,
cartoon,
cartoon,
he doodled his final cartoon.