The Ballad of the Bunless Boy.

“Mother, I can feel no pain,
Only a buzzing in the brain;
Give me a slice of hot-cross bun,
Or the egg of an Easter OrpingTon.”

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The mother's head was bowed with care,
And she fixed the boy with a glassy stare,
And murmured deep, “No son-of-a-gun,
Shall cross My boy with a hot-cross bun—
Or even the egg of an OrpingTon.”
The shades of night were thick as glue,
Or the lower half of an Irish stew,
And the mother sat, as she sat before,
And muttered a mute “Excelsior!”
“No astro-comical son-of-a-gun
Shall kid my boy with a hot-cross bun.”
“And never,” said she, “shall half-baked dough
Upholster his chest until I know
The strength of this Easter so-and-so.
Ah, never a mother's love they'll rob,
By working a slinter—s'elp me Bob!
And shifting the calendar up a peg.
To cheat my boy of his Easter egg;
Or snatch from the lips of a mother's son,
The ecstasy of a hot-cross bun.
Ah—how do I know the game is square,
When Easter is altered every year?”