THE GONG FARMER*

Here in this dark pit
beneath the castle wall
a whistling turd goes pat
into the slurry's well.

I wait for the last bit,
turn to the boy Tom Tall.
'Go bang it with your bat:
the shitless hour tell.'

The gong he starts to hit:
they hear it in the hall.
I don my stinking hat,
sink boots in faecal hell.

Right fast I scoop the shit
which might your soul appal;
Tom Short hauls up what's shat
and what the bowels dispel.

I feel, in fumes unfit
for humans, something fall
from heaven, something fat
upon my back. What fell?

Despite the gong, the slit
above expels a squall
of faeces from the slot:
my tongue I fain must quell.

Here in this dark pit
beneath the castle wall
a whistling turd goes pat
upon my hat as well.



* Servant employed by the castle to clean out
the sewage pits below the battlements