I’ll name the smallest people up the yard:
there was Little George, Robert, Jock and me.
Jock had a habit of being happy,
and when happy he found it very hard
to say any word other than “Bastard”.
But he was my eye-level friend, and me,
I had a calculating cruelty
that could drop an abstainer’s solemn guard.
So Jock fell in with my considered plan:
I got Robert’s teddy, he hung it high
on a gambrel in the slaughterhouse as if
freshly slaughtered, and then I ran and ran
to get Robert, who came, saw, usual cry,
“MUM!” wail “JOCK’S KILLED TEDDY”.
Torture: my gift.
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