The Bottom of the Ocean
There are people at the bottom of the Ocean
And they walk and talk there just like you and me.
They’re such ordinary fellows
With moustaches and umbrellas,
And their wives as pink and pleasant as can be,
As can be,
All these people at the bottom of the sea.
When you scry into the bottom of the Ocean
You can see their children playing hand in hand.
Some are bright and some are sporty,
Some are good and some are naughty,
And they’re playing in the seaweed and the sand,
And the sand,
Exactly like the children on the land.
The houses at the bottom of the Ocean
Are as fine as any houses in the town;
But the windows of the places
Are so fraught with scaly faces
Of the finny fishes swishing up and down,
Up and down,
That you wonder why the people never drown.
There’s a stranger at the bottom of the Ocean,
He’s a stranger who will be your special friend.
There’s no cause to fume and fret
If you haven’t met him yet,
He’s the special friend on whom you can depend,
Can depend,
And everybody meets him in the end.
It’s so lovely at the bottom of the Ocean,
It’s as comfy as the blankets on your bed.
There’s no doubt and there’s no danger,
For no-one is a stranger.
Push your face into your pillow, sleepyhead,
Sleepyhead,
That’s the way it always happens when you’re dead.
In the Blood
The blood comes down in carboys,
The blood comes down in crates.
They give it to the bar boys
Who drink it with their mates.
They drink and, hey, they’re rough and tough
Before you count to ten.
They think hot blood will do the stuff
That turns them into men.
They think hot blood will be the fix
That makes us flee in terror.
But no, the silly little pricks
Are yet again in error,
A social problem and a sad
Reproach to this, our nation,
Past hope, irrevocably bad.
I blame their education.