Finn
Finn, the three legged fiend,
Lost the fourth,
Demanding with menace,
By the railway line.
It ended up in Cardiff, hanging
From a dead fox’s fur,
Which the nasty woman
Never wore again.
For that, we should be thankful.

Finn did ok with the three,
Invoking female compassion,
And secured many a chicken drum
By way of compensation.
No matter that he brought it
On himself, by greed
And round-eyed need,
He knew he was to blame.
For that we should be thankful.

If it had been deemed our fault,
You can bet your last biscuit
He’d never let you forget.
It would cost a fortune
To keep that fiend
In the style he wished
To become accustomed.
I think he did it on purpose.
For that we must be grateful.