(Most of the humour collected here is in the public domain, unless otherwise specified.)
When a man grows old, and his balls grow cold, and the tip of his knob goes blue,
and it’s bent in the middle like a one-string fiddle, he can tell you a tale or two.
So stand me a drink and find me a seat, and a yarn to you I’ll tell,
of Dead-eyed Dick and Mexico Pete, and a whore called Eskimo Nell.
Now when Dead-eyed Dick and Mexico Pete went forth in search of fun,
’twas Dead-eyed Dick who toted the prick and Mexico Pete the gun.
And when Dead-eyed Dick and Mexico Pete felt sore, depressed and sad,
it was generally cunt that bore the brunt, tho’ the shooting was just as bad.
Now Dead-eyed Dick and Mexico Pete had been hunting in Dead Man’s Creek,
and they’d had no luck by way of a fuck for nigh on half a week.
Just a moose or two or a caribou and a bison cow or so,
and for Dead-eyed Dick with his kingly prick such fucking was deadly slow.
So Dead-eyed Dick with his mighty prick and Pete with his gun in hand,
left Dead Man’s Creek for the rest of the week and made for a better land.
By road and rail they blazed their trail and no man Pete’s gun withstood,
and many a bride who was hubby’s pride knew pregnant widowhood.
They hit the strand of the Rio Grande at the height of the blazing noon,
and to slake their thirst and do their worst they sought Black Mike’s saloon.
And as they crashed through the swinging doors, both prick and gun flashed free,
“According to sex, you drunken wrecks, you drinks or fucks with me.”
They knew this trick of Dead-eyed Dick from the Horn to Panama,
so with nothing worse than a muttered curse, the dagoes sought the bar.
The women too his ways they knew from the Cape to the Rio Grande,
so forty whores took down their drawers at Dead-eyed Dick’s command.
They saw the fingers of Mexico Pete twitch on the trigger grip,
’twas death to wait, at a fearful rate those whores began to strip.
And Dead-eyed Dick was breathing quick with lecherous snorts and grunts,
as forty arses were bared to view, to say nothing of forty cunts.
Now forty arses and forty cunts you’ll see if you use your wits,
and rattle a bit at arithmetic, that’s likewise eighty tits.
And fourscore tits is a gladsome sight for a man with a raging stand,
a sight that is rare in Berkeley Square but common in Rio Grande.
Now Dead-eyed Dick had dipped his wick twice on the previous night,
but this he’d done by way of fun just to whet his appetite.
His phallic limb was in fighting trim so he backed and took a run,
he made a dart at the nearest tart and scored a hole in one.
He bore her to the sandy floor and fucked her deep and fine,
and although she grinned it put the wind up the other thirty-nine.
Now Dead-eyed Dick he fucks them quick and flinging the first aside,
he was having a shot at the second twat when the swing doors opened wide.
And into that hall of sin and vice into that sabot’s hell,
there strolled a maid who was unafraid and her name was Eskimo Nell.
Now Dead-eyed Dick who fucks them quick was well into number two
when Eskimo Nell let out a yell, and shouted to him, “Hey you!”
The lusty lout he turned about, both knob and face were red,
he gave a flick of his mighty prick and the tart flew o’er his head.
With a lustful leer he said, “Look here, you take your place in the queue,
I’ve got to mate with thirty-eight before I come to you.”
But Eskimo Nell stood it well, and looked him in the eyes,
and she gazed at his horn with fathomless scorn as it rose from his hairy thighs.
She blew a puff from her cigarette onto his steaming knob,
so utterly beat was Mexico Pete that he clean forgot his job.
It was Eskimo Nell who broke the spell in accents calm and cool,
“You cunt-struck shrimp of a Yankee pimp, do you call that thing a tool?
If this town can’t take that down,” sneered she at the cowering whores,
“there’s one little cunt that can do the stunt, that’s Eskimo Nell’s, not yours.”
She shed her garments one by one with an air of conscious pride,
till at last she stood in her womanhood and they saw the great divide.
She spread herself on a table top where someone had left a glass,
with a twitch of her tits she crushed it in bits between the cheeks of her arse.
She flexed her knees with supple ease and spread her thighs apart,
with a friendly nod to the surly sod she gave him the cue to start.
But Dead-eyed Dick with his kingly prick was prepared to take his time,
for a whore like this was too good to miss, so he staged a pantomime.
He winked his arsehole out and in and made his balls inflate,
till they seemed to all like the granite balls on top of a garden gate.
He rubbed his foreskin up and down till his knob increased in size,
his mighty prick grew twice as thick and nearly reached his eyes.
He polished it up with alcohol to make it steaming hot,
and to finish the job he peppered his knob with a cayenne pepper pot.
He didn’t run, he didn’t back nor take a flying leap,
he didn’t swoop but seemed to stoop and advanced with a steady creep.
Then he took a sight as a gunman might along his massive tool,
and the careful way he put it in was calculating cool.
Have you ever seen the pistons go on a mighty C.P.R.?
With the driving force of a thousand horse, then you’ll know what pistons are.
Or you’ll think you do but I’m telling you that you’ve yet to learn the trick
of the work that’s done on a non-stop run by a man like Dead-eyed Dick.
But Eskimo Nell was an infidel with a really tough construction,
she’d the strength of ten in her abdomen and a paralysing suction.
Her mighty cunt could stand the rush like the flush of a water-closet,
and she gripped his cock like the Chatwood Lock on the national safe deposit.
She lay for a while with a subtle smile while the grip of her cunt grew keener,
then with a flick of her thigh she sucked him dry with the case of a vacuum cleaner.
She performed that feat in a way so neat as to set at complete defiance
the primary laws and the basic cause that govern sexual science.
She calmly rode through the phallic code which for years had stood the test,
and the laws of the classic school in a moment or two went west.
And now my friends we come to the end of the copulatory epic,
the effect on Dick was sudden and quick and akin to an anaesthetic.
He dropped to the floor and knew no more – his passion extinct and dead.
He didn’t shout as his prick slipped out, though it nearly stripped the thread.
Mexico Pete he sprang to his feet to avenge his friend’s affront,
his long-nosed Colt with a fearful jolt he rammed up her steaming cunt.
He sank it up to the trigger grip and fired it twice times three,
and to his surprise she fluttered her eyes and sighed in ecstacy.
She lept to her feet with a smile so sweet, “Bully for you!” she cried.
“That pistol shot was the best of the lot – at last I’m satisfied.
I thought you jerks could could give me the works,” she said in accents cool,
“but I guess I must go to the land of snow to find me a man with a tool.
I’m going back to the frozen North, to the land where spunk is spunk,
not a trickling stream of luke-warm cream but a frozen solid chunk.
Back to the land where they understand what it means to fornicate,
where even the dead lie two in a bed, and the infants masturbate.
Where they’ll tell this tale on the Arctic trail when the nights are sixty below,
and it’s so damned cold french letters are sold wrapped in a ball of snow.
Back to the land of the mighty stand where the nights are six months long,
where the polar bear wanks off in his lair, that’s where they’ll sing this song.
So my friend, when you next intend to go forth in search of crumpet,
tell Dead-eyed Dick to dip his wick in the cunt of a local strumpet.”