Isaac Petter
by
Cyril Fletcher
A furrier named Isaac Petter
Owned a dog, a large red setter.
When making up a coat one day,
Isaac's dog got in the way,
And by mistake the unlucky cur
Was duly stitched into the fur.
The coat was bought by Annie Gunk,
Who said 'Oo, what a lovely skunk!'
Which only proved she should know better;
It was beaver, with a dash of setter.
It fitted her just like a sack,
And whilst she walked, it scratched her back.
Her husband said 'This coat's alive,
It answers to the name of Clive,
And what is even more absurd,
It points to every passing bird.
It also demonstrates with ease
A quaint affinity for trees.'
Just then, the family butler, Adam,
Whispered 'Please excuse me, Madam,
Although I don't quite see the point,
Your fur coat's swiped the Sundayjoint.'
Annie said, 'This coat's not right,
We have to let it out at night,
An every time it 'ears a gun
You ought to see me fur coat run!
I can't complain it's rather pleasant,
It always comes back with a pheasant.'
Her husband said 'This fur's not fair,
It always sits in my best chair.'
I sat on it, it's really got em,
It went for me and bit my bottom.'
So her husband threw the coat away,
But it walked home again next day,
It welcomed him, this fur he'd tricked,
Thus he was well and truly licked.
The end