Lullaby

Your father’s gone to Mass,

Your mother’s at the club,

You’ll get it on your ass

If you continue to blub.

My mother was a poor thing

On the Auray moor

And I get by with crepemaking

While I give you what for.

If of croup you pass,

Or colic or diarrhea

If you die of the scabs

On your nose I see,

I shall fish up shrimp

When the tide is full

For soup with the heads you simp:

No need of hooks at all.

Max Jacob