Fatricia and Feter |
| Ladies and gentlemen, 50 years ago Paul Finch, the famous short-sighted poet, typed his last poem on a machine which had been repaired by an equally short-sighted repairman. And he put the F where the P should be, and the he put the P where the F should be. |
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| However, as it is his last poem, I thought you might like to hear it as it was originally written. Here it is then, Fatricia and Feter, the pinal foem of Faul Pinch. I think you'll like it. |
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| Fatricia was just pipteen |
| When she pell in love with Fete, |
| He was pishing in the river, |
| With galoshes on his peet. |
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| (He speaks first) |
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| "Is the water deef here?" |
| "About pour inches," she reflies, |
| He fut his poot in pront op him, |
| And sank uf to his eyes. |
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| As he struggled to the surpace, |
| Covered prom head to poot, in muck, |
| She said, "That's punny, |
| It only comes halp way uf my duck." |
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| She noticed he was peeling paint |
| So she griffed him by the arm, |
| He said, "Are you rich?" She said, "No, I peed myself |
| With pood grown on my parm." |
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| Years fassed by and handsome Fete |
| Lept town, and so did fretty Fat, |
| She joined the metrofolitan folice porce, |
| Her polks were froud op that. |
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| One day as she was facing uf and down, |
| She heard a strange cry in the street, |
| Someone was flaying a piddle, |
| In the gutter, there stood Fete. |
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| She could tell by the look ufon his pace, |
| He was peeling broken-hearted, |
| He said, "I've lept my wipe, you know," |
| She said, "I'd heard you'd... gone." |
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| "Flease, flease, oh go away flease," he begged, |
| She answered him with smiles, |
| He said, "I've been in frison," |
| She said, "I know, I've seen your piles." |
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| He said, "At least I had pood in there |
| And over my head a roop, |
| If I'd have stayed much longer with all those men, |
| I'd have become a raving foop." |
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| She held his hand as they were wed, |
| At the chafel op St. Fauls, |
| They honeymooned in Niagara, |
| And she held him by the palls. |
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| They now have pour children, |
| And lipe for them is great, |
| You just can't fredict where it will foint, |
| That pickle pinger op pate. |
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