There grows an effing sycamore
Beside my garden wall,
And when the effing autumn comes
The effing leaves do fall!
They fall and fill the effing eaves,
They block the effing drain,
And when I've cleared one effing lot
It all fills up again!
As if my troubles weren't enough,
When effing spring comes round
This tree sends down its effing seeds
To fill the effing ground.
They spread across the effing lawn
And on each effing plot,
And when I've pulled them I get
Another effing lot!
My wife's a sentimentalist
And so she says to me:
"I'm not expecting to be kissed,
But I love that effing tree."
"I know you do, my dear," I say,
In measured effing tones.
"You like the effing colours
And my hollow effing groans!"
I even park my effing car
Beneath that effing tree,
And every effing bird has made
An effing fool of me!
And yet, within my effing heart
I know I am unkind:
That effing tree is beautiful,
And I'm not effing blind.
I shouldn't hate the sycamore,
It isn't really fair--
So I'll hate the effing Council
Who put the effer there.
--John Laycock
