He lay down dying in the sand

And reached out with his withered hand

The only one that he had got

The other hacked off while he shot

At all hunters milling round

Who’d wrestled him down to the ground

And taken what he needed most

It was required by me, Mine Host

And though he couldn’t make a noise

They’d cut his tongue out, he’d no voice

Still I knew he understood

It wouldn’t do, it was no good!

He couldn’t have the apple pie

In my restaurant – you wear a tie!!

(To be spoken with increasing speed, gusto and volume!)

©Joe Wilson – Down at the Sahara Savoy.. 1996/2013