And sometimes drove poor Joseph on the `binge';
He staggered home one night
At four a.m. - quite `tight' -
So Ermyntrude, his wife, planned her revinge.
Up to his side she crept
And while he soundly slept
Undid his coat and shirt in manner weird.
Then when his chest was nude
Upon it she tattooed
Her Mother's face, the Lady avec Beard!
Joe woke at half past nine
And saw the dread design,
It stared out through his little Aertex vest.
A horrible surprise,
Could he believe his eyes?
The face he hated, grinning from his chest!
He straightway signed the pledge
And lived on fruit and veg',
He thought that he was `seeing things', poor youth.
But even when T.T.
That fungus'd face he'd see,
Until at last there dawned the tattooed truth!
He left his wife, of course,
And sued for a divorce,
And as the neighbours kept asking why?
He roamed from' Shepherd's Bush
To Ashby-de-la-Zush,
  From far-off Peckham Vale to Maida Rye.
In deep despair at last
He bought a mustard plast',
And plonked it on his chest without delay.
That plaster burned and burned.
To tear it off he yearned,
But hoped it would singe the beard away.
The mustard was so strong
He left it on too long.
And while he peeled it off, his chest was sore.
So blistered was the skin,
It made a double chin,
The beard looked twice the size it was before!
Poor Joe went raving mad,
His end came swift and sad,
That tattooed picture must remain he knew;
Resigned, he softly sighed.
Then whispered as he died:
`Thank Heav'n it's not a talking picture too!

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