MIXED
 
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I've suffered all through my life through my ideas getting mixed
To one thing in its groove my mind refuses to be mixed
Times, places, things and names, with me are in a muddle sad
Which makes me feel, I own, well almost melancholy mad
This shows itself when, as a child, they taught me Nursury Rhymes
And dinned the jingles in my head some half a million times
But, do their best, the jumble came, as bad as bad could be
And when requested to recite they got this stuff from me.

Chorus: Jack and Jill ran up the clock, and Pat-a-cake would wander
To 'Baa-baa Black' mouse, with a pail of Goosey-Goosey-Gander
Little Jack Horner's cupboard's bare of Tom the Piper's son
And Mother Hubbard's Banbury Cross with Twaddlum Twenty-one


My life at school did not improve! No matter what it's name
Each article, or branch of learning mixed up was the same
My latin I with French confused, to neither could I stick
I did my sums in German and spoke Arithmetic
For maps I used to draw, of course, triangles or a square
I'd say that Egypt was in 'Tret' and London was in 'Tare'
My languages were chucked about in such perplexing styles
I used to say 'Amo Amas' was in the British Isles.

Chorus: Alpha, B, C, esse, vivre, diese, hic, celui
Ein, deux, tres et tessares, Du bist et Ego suis
And just to show how mixed I got a line I'm quoting from
'Gesellsschaft sommes eutrapelos, Ya' oui nous sommes nous sommes


My schooling done, I entered life, my years being just a score
But found my mind in almost worse confusion than before
I fell in love like other men, but matters didn't fit
For, of course, as you'd expect of me, I mixed the girls a bit
I wrote to my adored one, while reflecting on a note
To my tailor on the subject of a fashionable coat
That opportunity was not the one for fate to miss
For the bright amalgamation which I posted ran like this,

Chorus: My own, Dear Sir, of all the girls diagonal's the best
I love you solely 'cos you're forty inches round the chest
Your sweet silk facings charm me, your back pockets brightly shine
Yours ever single breasted, don't charge more than two pounds nine.


At length I married, and a boy my blissful prospects crowned
A wealthy god papa to stand the usual mug I found
The breakfast for the Christening I ordered out of hand
And meant (all things considered) to 'come out' and do the grand
The night before a cabman was impertinent to me
And I'd a note to write to him, and god papa, you see
Who'd asked if it was girl or boy, the gifts not to perplex
But somehow, I mixed up the fare, the breakfast and the sex.

Chorus: Dear Tomkins, it's a legal fare from Mary John to Cake
Your charming mug's extortion you a summons Ann, may take
His name is Oyster Patties, Scotland Yard's the soup I'd fix
Her number is Saint Barnabus, we lunch at three and six!
 
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Performed by Edward Terry (1843-1912)
 
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