(Tune: "Tit-willow" from "The Mikado" by Gilbert & Sullivan)

On a tree by river a Bishop once sat,
Singing "Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."
He was clutching a "Playboy" a ball and a bat,
Singing "Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."
Tell me why, noble father, why photos so wide?
Is it weakness of intellect, please to confide?
With a shake of his poor little head he replied;
"Oh, willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."

He looked at that chest as got orf that bough,
Singing "Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."
With a cold perspiration he then explained how,
How willow, tit-willow, tit-willow;
When a Merseyside Bishop, his conscience he gave,
To the loves of his life of which he was a slave;
To decide between girls and the cricket he craved;
Oh willow, tit-willow, tit-willow.

Now the sound of the bats striking leather so firm,
Hitting willow, hit willow, hit willow;
Had the edge on those beauties he then did confirm,
Oh willow, tit-willow, tit-willow;
But he gazes on pictures and turns with a sigh,
And his dream is of boundaries and scoring so high;
And he'll probably always exclaim with a cry;
"Oh, willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."

© Pharisaios 1988, 2001

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