by John Walker The year me Dad made Christmas puddin's, It's a sight I'll never forget, 'Cos it 'appened afore I were married, And afore I was beget. Was Stir-up Sunday, in August, The Vicar got 'im all riled about Talking 'how mince pies an' puddins Were a waste of good Christian stout.' So me Dad decided to fashion, A plum pudding to show Vicar right. An' that to complement flavour, Enough Guinness to make the Pope tight. The recipe for this piece de resistance, Was a family heirloom of sorts. Nicked from a Christmas cracker box, That was 50% off at Big Lots. 'Twas a puddin' of mighty ambition, With sultanas, currants and stout. With gobs of white suet from butcher's, There was no room to leave anything out. He assembled the cast of ingredients, And a bowl as big as a boat. He poured in just three pints of Guinness, For the rest he had poured down his throat. To the Guinness he mixed all the extras, With a great spoon made out of wood. And as the mixture grew thicker, Came a sound like a terrible thud. The spoon it had broken in pieces, For the puddin' had proved far too strong. He re-read the recipe in a frenzy, "Where did he go terribly wrong?" 'Cos there were 6 oz. of flour per puddin', Then in brackets (1 1/2 cups). His mistake was of misnumeration, As he realized where he'd cocked up. Instead of 6 ounces of flour, Instead of just 1 1/2 cups. He added 6 cups! For an hour, He tried to add it all up. Faced with a terrible dilemma, Could he throw all that Guinness away? Should he double and double the puddin'? He acted without further delay. He poured in more suet and raisins, He bought more beer from the store. Then realized a quart in a pint pot, Makes a bloody great mess on the floor. He tried to mix dough in the bathtub, But the soap scum kept making it stick. And the wheelbarrow was nary an option, As it was full of cat sick. He called the super-bowl party store, Requesting their biggest caldroon, That was still much too small for the puddin', Even though it filled up half the room. So he scoured the local environs, For a tub to mix puddin' in. And found an abandoned slate quarry. It just about fitted all in. So he made 65 Christmas puddin's, One for each house on our street. To boil them took best part of December, Of suet and Guinness we reeked. Now, our families not fond of Dad's puddin's, A spoonful was all they would eat, So sixty-four puddin's were orphaned. He left one at each house in our street. That year the street was in uproar, 'Cos puddin's appeared from the blue. With no fingerprints to point out the culprit, And no instructions to tell what to do. If you've never seen Dad's Christmas puddin's, You too would be left all agog. To find a black lump, Christmas morning, On your porch, like were left by the dog. There's a moral an' lesson t'story, That recipes should be followed with care. An' if you step out this Christmas morning, On your porch, you'd better beware!
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