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FAIT, OPE
AND CARITY
by
Benny Hill
Written
on a typewriter that was missing the letter H.
Ladies and gentlemen. Here at the Thames Drama School, pupils
are not permitted to paraphrase. And by that I mean, if the
script says, "he was bent on seeing her," they you must say,
"he was bent on seeing her," and not, "the sight of her doubled
him up." You see? And you have to keep to the script.
And with this in mind, the passing outpiece is this poem by
Walter Winchell and it's called "Faith, Hope and Charity" and
it has to be read as it was typed twenty years ago on a very
old typewriter on which the letter 'H' was missing.
Here then is "Fait, Ope and Carity" by Walter Wincell, professor
of Ceckoslovakian Pilosopy and Mats. |
Next door
to a sop tat sells fis and cips,
In Arrow on te Illl,
Lived Pillip, a pysioterapist,
Is cums all called im Pil,
E was very muc in love wit a girl called June
E poned er wenever e could.
E sent er a cocolate box, cock a block wit cocolates
But it didn't do any good.
E picked er favourite flowers,
Ten gave 'em to er in a bunc,
E tried to sin up er drainpipe,
So se invited im in for lunc.
Se offered im cicken sandwices,
And a carcoaled grilled lambcop,
E just kept smoking and cewing is cewing gum,
Se tougt e'd never stop.
Se said, "I can't enjoy our little cat,
Wit your as all over te floor,
Wy don't you put your as in te astray,
Tat's wat te damned ting's for."
E said, "Marry me or live wit me,
I really don't care wic."
Se said, "I'll give you my boot, you uncout yout,
Get out! Don't come back till you're ric."
Ten along came Poebe, wearing a cincilla fur coat,
Tat almost reaced to te ground.
Te couple met in a laundorette,
Wile e was watcing is wasing go round.
Se said, "I'm no Sopia Loren,
I know tat my sape's not so ot,
I may be old in te toot, my teet may be false,
But I could give you suc a lot.
"You dine on roast peasant, you drink cilled campaign,
As you lay on some sundrenced beac,
I may be sixty-tree, I've te skin of a peac,"
E said, "Yea, sixty-tree, you're on peak!"
Se said, "Sow me a little carity, you sall ave my last farting,
Of tat I give you my word,
Tey were married next day, up Arrogate way,
Tursday, Marc te tird.
Wen I banged on te door of is fine ome in Cicister,
I got suc a nasty sock,
I eard im mutter, "O sit,"
To is dog wo was running amock.
E said e'd a appy life, full of good ceer,
And a lady tat e could adore,
E said, "A May-December marriage worked fine for im,
But ten June ad te ouse next door."
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