I am but a broken-hearted maid, My tale I’ll tell to you, As I sit alone in this wooden glade, Yearnin’ for a puddin’ or two. I hi hi hi, si hi hi hi hi hiiiiiing! Whack folly doodle ho, whoops cum whang, The greatest song my grandma sang, Was to her fam’ly of twenty-three, Ho dish up the pudden, save some for me! ‘Twas made from fruit and arrowroot, Hard pears an’ apples, too, Some honey that the bees chucked out, That set as hard as glue, Some comfrey leaf an’ bulrush sheaf, An damsons sour as ever, She stirred to lot in a big old pot, While we sang ‘Fail me never.’ When all of a sudden Grandma’s pot pudden, Burst right out the pot, Round as a boulder, not much older, Fifty times as hot! It shot down the road, laid out a toad, An’ knocked two hedgehogs flat, Splashed in the lake an’ slew a snake, An’ the frogs cried ‘Wot was that?’ Oh deary me calamity, oh woe an’ lack a day, Without a pudden to my name I’ll sit an’ pine . . . awaaaaaay Whack foholly doohoohoodelll daaaayeeeeeee!
-Dorothea Duckfontein Dillworthy, Lord Brocktree