To an Ironing Board
Nailed to a Bedroom Door
There are welts across the arses
Of the British upper classes
Then in France it launched a craze
Benamed “La Maladie Anglaise.”
All may crave this painful bliss: though
It helps to be aristo;
“Oh please, Sir Dukie, Duke, please,
Smack me just like the Marquise!”
Back and forth across the Channel
Pong and Ping the darling paddle
Raised her red retorts of pleasure
Forth and back in equal measure.
The wealthy Duke of Lauderdale
Does enjoy an unforced wail
From aproned maids, with wet red eyes
Who are ladies in disguise.
Our sublime poet of rack and wheel
Was clapt into the dread Bastille
Deprived of Light and Day
By a Lettre de Cachet
So, well-born and standing tall
Leaves a greater way to fall.
Duke and Marquesses fall down on
Knights, Viscounts, and Baron.
This little doggerel of decay, Brings us to the present Day
In this world of Bush the younger………. Hunger