For what chance did a bun stand with me, sirs
Who the finest chain-armour had split?
I determined that bun shouldn't flee, sirs
If only I got a fair hit.

'Stand clear!' called the umpire, 'Stand by, sirs
Three strokes with the axe are allowed.'
My master then raised me on high, sirs
And sneeringly smiled on the crowd.

Then 'Crash'... down I came all my might, sirs
With every knack that I knew
Twelve glasses fell down on the right, sirs
Into pieces the white counter flew.

Two dozen bottles of sherry
Fell smash on five more of port wine
But the face of the bun remained merry
Which is more than I dared say of mine.

My master, quite dazed at the sight, sirs
With a crash gave his other two blows
Nine cab-horses promptly took fright, sirs
And some glass cut the referee's nose.

  But still that old bun didn't sever
The shrivelled old currents shewed plain
My edge had now vanished for ever
So they put me along with the slain

That's the story of my sad disgrace, sirs
'Tis the history true of my fall
That's the cause of my poor battered face, sirs
Which I always keep turned to the wall.

Still, often the story is told, sirs
Of the great bun and battle-axe fight
And the bun even now is not sold, sirs
So the next thing to try's dynamite.


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