The Winturd Tale of Sir Donald Nudesby

Footprints linger on the lawn, Where Nudesby trod 'ere crack of dawn Through snow-veil'd gardens, soon to dodge Around behind the gard'ner's lodge, There to slip int' wooden shack, Where sweating brow gives strength to crack And buttocks, wiped with little care, Leave brownly marks upon the chair. But footprints leave and don't return; For Nudesby's fate there's some concern! Bewilder'd children shield their ears, Whilst women fight to hold back tears. As servants rouse the nudehounds four, Young Lady Nudesby sallies forth, With silken tissue, 'round the back To strain and weep inside the shack. Back at the Hall, with hounds unleashed, The servants hark the ghastly screech Of Lady Nudesby, knickers down, Discov'ring Donald and his brown.... Through winturd night, and morning frost It seems that Nudesby's life was lost. But little wonder that he froze - Sir Donald Nudesby wore no clothes!