Boris Noris, stupid boy
Had habits you could not enjoy.
His table manners were not great
He let you watch him masticate.
He licked his knife, he sucked his fork
And, as he ate, he always talked.
He was a windy child and grew
And as he grew his farts did too,
He liked to bend his knee and crouch
And hold his breath to let them out
And if they smelled quite awful too,
He liked to point and say: ‘It’s you!’
As he walked his shoes would whiff
His socks were always damp and stiff.
His mum, who was the village bike
Let him do just as he liked.
If he was rude, she thought it funny
She really was a dreadful mummy.
One day, Boris, child of renown
Took a bus into the town
Feeling he needed some enriching
He’d come equipped to do some nicking.
Inside his jacket a bag he’d pegged
And a rugby sock down his trouser leg.
The sweet shop was his primary mark
Then the stationers beside the park,
The paper shop, the cake shop and a quick foray
Into a shop of ladies’ lingerie.
Although in there he did not linger
Nothing tempted his itchy finger.
Alas it was not long before
He tried the massive department store.
On the ground floor some of his dodges
Were pocketing wallets and trousering watches.
Up in the lift to ‘Fashions We Love’
He stole Harris Tweed scarves and cashmere gloves.
Next floor up, in ‘The Home Cocktail Bar’
He nicked a silver device, for taking lids off jars
A diamond set corkscrew and a gold plated cane
And a brush for scrubbing inside of a drain.
Up to the next floor in ‘Cash And Accounts’
He found unattended money and trousered large amounts.
Of all his dubious strategies
This was the most defective
Attracting the attention of the lithesome store detective.
The store detective – name of Keith –
Cried: ‘Stop right there, you little thief
Do not run into Rugs and Lights
Or I will have you bang to rights!’
But Boris Noris, loud and fat
Would not hang around for that.
Shouting: ‘Alligator, later!.’
He made a dash for the escalator.
With the nickings banging like an alarmer
He clanked on to the staircase like a boy in armour.
But farting, blowing raspberries and out of puff,
He missed the first step and that was enough,
Like a ball on a bowling alley, downwards he tumbled
Shouting: ‘Out of the way, you gits! I’ve been rumbled!’
Two steps lower, dainty Lady Mary Chalmers
Was chucked over the handrail, into Men’s Pyjamas.
Decked in Winter Winceyette and Y Fronts, double banded,
She leapt towards the moving stairs, and grabbed him as he landed.
She handed him to Keith, arriving like a train,
And was removed to the fourth floor café, for revival with champagne.
Then Keith, the store detective, got Boris by the Noris
And marched him, clanking like a tank, right into the office.
Where the manager relieved him of all that he was able
And wrote it down and spread it out in heaps upon the table.
A glass globe full of gobstoppers
A brush for scrubbing drains,
A box of chewy, fizzy sweets,
A pouch of goldish chains,
A box of pencil sharpeners,
A leather-bound shopping list,
A model of Euston Station,
Two bags of salted crisps,
A cowbell and a bale of hay,
Some Fair Isle ankle socks,
A bottle for topping pot pourri
And a bottle for oiling locks,
A diamond thing, a goldy thing,
Six wallets and two watches,
A lipstick and a handbag,
And a book of carpet swatches,
Some scarves, pound coins and ten pound notes,
An album for ‘Photos that I love’,
A birthday cake, two custard tarts,
And a pair of cashmere gloves. (Pink.)
Police arrived, they took him off
They gave his mum a phone,
When she got there she had to give
Much dosh to get him home.
Was he contrite?
Well, heck as like,
He did not feel a fool
But boasted round the village
And an awful lot at school.
A date was set to go to court,
Boris Noris was marched in,
Sticking his tongue out, thumbing his nose
And doing tons of farting.
His brief dragged him up
Shut him up and said to sit and wait,
They were waiting for the magistrate
The magistrate was late. (Traffic.)
‘Stuff you,’ said Boris Noris,
’I really do not care
Who is standing on the bench
Or sitting in the chair
They can come from far and near
From bath and bed and loo
No stupid-looking magistrate
Can tell me what to do!’
And then the usher called for ush
From retailers, stationers and farmers
And said, ‘Pray silence for the magistrate –
Who is Lady Mary Chalmers.’
Boris stopped mid-fart and went white.
Over all the rest I draw a veil,
The story is not pretty.
Boris got his just desserts
Banged up inside the city.
He learned his lesson,
Quite reformed – he got a nasty fright
Now he only ever farts under the blankets
On his own, in his bed, in the night.
Complaints to JaneLaverick.com – I thank you.