The Bottom of the Ocean; In the Blood

The Bottom of the Ocean

There are people at the bottom of the Ocean

And they walk and talk there just like you and me.

     They’re such ordinary fellows

     With moustaches and umbrellas,

And their wives as pink and pleasant as can be,

As can be,

All these people at the bottom of the sea.

When you scry into the bottom of the Ocean

You can see their children playing hand in hand.

     Some are bright and some are sporty,

     Some are good and some are naughty,

And they’re playing in the seaweed and the sand,

And the sand,

Exactly like the children on the land.

The houses at the bottom of the Ocean

Are as fine as any houses in the town;

     But the windows of the places

     Are so fraught with scaly faces

Of the finny fishes swishing up and down,

Up and down,

That you wonder why the people never drown.

There’s a stranger at the bottom of the Ocean,

He’s a stranger who will be your special friend.

     There’s no cause to fume and fret

     If you haven’t met him yet,

He’s the special friend on whom you can depend,

Can depend,

And everybody meets him in the end.

It’s so lovely at the bottom of the Ocean,

It’s as comfy as the blankets on your bed.

     There’s no doubt and there’s no danger,

     For no-one is a stranger.

Push your face into your pillow, sleepyhead,


That’s the way it always happens when you’re dead.

In the Blood

The blood comes down in carboys,

The blood comes down in crates.

They give it to the bar boys

Who drink it with their mates.

They drink and, hey, they’re rough and tough

Before you count to ten.

They think hot blood will do the stuff

That turns them into men.

They think hot blood will be the fix

That makes us flee in terror.

But no, the silly little pricks

Are yet again in error,

A social problem and a sad

Reproach to this, our nation,

Past hope, irrevocably bad.

I blame their education.

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