(after Horace, Epode III, Parentis olim)
I’ve just heard of the best curse for those who don’t respect
their dads, or give them cheek,
let them eat pigs’ trotters, they taste like poison.
Foundry-men must have strong guts
because if I eat them they make me heave.
I tell you, these trotters
covered in dripping, should be in a cauldron,
or else thrown to the dogs.
You remember that night when the two-till-tens knocked off,
and Aggie, an eye on her Billy,
met him in the snug, gave him a pigs-trotter hug,
made him stink from head to foot,
then as she left to turn their bed down, caressed his shoulders,
clasped her hands round the back of Billy’s neck?
The whole of that snug smelled to high heaven,
and poor Billy with it.
You smell like Stockton Abattoir, Bill lad,
was what all his mates said.
Now Anne, if you get any ideas about my bloke,
don’t be surprised if the next day,
when you go to get your best dress from the wardrobe,
it smells like the essence of pig.