If I could be your doxy

we’d meet down dogshite alley,

we’d rage, rampage and copulate

as the old rough bells tolled two.

 

You’d tear my smelly petticoats

I’d call you my old smelly goat

but I’d luv ya and I’d luv ya

and you wouldn’t care what you’d caught.

 

If I could be your doxy we’d never mind the poxy

or the blemishes of skin,

the pits and spots and everything

that only arsenic can cure.

To my bosom I would lure

my old curmudgeon squire.

 

I’ve a patch pot oh so pretty

to store my black heart beauty spot

to hide the proof I had the pox

but you’d not care

because because

together all the pleasure

from each other’s measure.

But we’d never get the measure

and we’d fuck until we died.

 

If I could be your doxy

with my muddy boots and petticoats

we’d drink gin

and canoodle

and you would be my boodle

and I’d love you and I’d love you

‘til the Thames was dredged to find me

with my petticoats behind me

and I’d luv ya and I’d luv ya

my old curmudgeon squire.