Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
His house and home; 'neath its red-tiled dome
He struts like a little tin god.
When Popper says stay, the family stay;
When Popper says go, they go;
And early and late, like the trumpet of Fate,
Sounds the fierce Fitzmicklean 'No!'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Came on his small son when
There, listening in to the cricketing din,
He sat as the clock struck ten.
'What? Sporting rubbish? At this hour, too!'
Said he: and his brow grew black.
'Things that I wouldn't do my son musn't do.
Bed, sir! And don't answer me back!'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
His hand on the wireless switch,
Listened a wile, and a ghost of a smile
His stern face seemed to twitch.
'Another man out!' He paused in doubt,
As he noted the latest score.
'Well, I might as well sit and listen a bit;
But a bare half hour, no more.'

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Just as the clock struck four,
Weary and worn in the cold, bleak morn
Crept by his small son's door.
And out of the stygian darkness there,
Swift to discover his sin,
A small voice cried from the gloom inside:
'Please Popper. Did our side win?'