Poem By George Hunter
There was an old fakir from Ne-pal
Who had a trick snake for a pal.
—He'd named him BoB
—And it was his job
To work near the Taj Mahal.
The guy had an old Indian flute
Which gave off a melodious toot.
—BoB would rise from his basket
—And sing A Tiskit A Tasket
And hope they would toss him some loot.
But one day, not feeling so sunny,
He said, 'You want to hear something not funny?
—I know you are trying, my dear
—But I sadly fear
We've just got to start making more money.
We'll think up a trick, very rare,
You'll have to catch coins in the air.
—It will amaze them no end
—And they'll have to spend
More money than even seems fair
So the people would all gather around
Entranced by that sensuous sound.
—Toss their coins way up high
—Which BoB would catch on the fly
Before they even hit the ground.
There was a slight problem, I'll say.
BoB would eat the coins all the way.
—No matter what I told him
—And I even would scold him
He would swallow them anyway.
Got so full of coins
Couldn't raise up his loins
He'd get so heavy with rupees
Couldn't do his poopies.
—Had to feed him ExLax
—To get him offa his back
And it gave him the awful droopies
I never thought that this trick
Would make me feel so sick.
—Now, if I want my pay
—I must spend all day
Poking snake poo with a stick!