My my my, 'pon my soul!
Mr. Oliver Hamshanky, sometimes, exclaimed,
to no one in particular.
An' why did he exclaim, 'my my my, pon my soul, '
to no one in particular?
dead easy, 'e lived alone
on the brow of a hill, in a castle,
far far away. wi' nowt but seagulls for company.
But then, sometimes, as the mood took 'im,
'e jus' sighed an' asighed
jus' cos e' were alonely an' wanted company.
other than the bloody screamin' gulls.

But, you see, e 'ad only 'imself to blame,
BECAUSE 'e 'ad 'ad, a squandered youth.
Yup! as he peered through myotropical eyes,
in a glazy daze at the distant haze,
'e was awonderin' where an' when
he was gonna get a dynamic gardener
to sort out his myriad of blooming myosoti,
which were bein' decimated by ravagin' myriapods.
These savage, these one legged legions,
couldn't dance to save their lives,
a thought which had brought him back to Gene Kelly
a leg end no more.

Yes, my friends, when a youth
he had idolised that man.
Had seen Jiggin' in the Precipitation
more times than he could count
and had practised tap, till he was blue in the face.
Unfortunately, due to his zeal,
he had caught a plethora of diseases,
i.e. pleurisy, pneumonia, bronchitis and flu,
and now, to pass the time,
he sticks pins into a likeness of that hated figure,
unaware that the dancin' dolt was no more,
havin' kicked the bucket many moons ago.