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!
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