The Tewksbury Pudding

It was my great misfortune to attend a dinner prepared by the Countess of Northumberland. When my fever broke three days later, I scribbled this on my privy wall:

The Tewksbury Pudding

Oh, the Tewksbury Pudding’s a wretched dessert.
Just the slightest of bites, and your prostate will hurt.
Your liver will swell, and your colon will squirt,
And you’ll blow a brown stain up the back of your shirt.

Yes, the Tewksbury Pudding’s a terrible treat.
They say it’s a bread, but you’ll swear it’s a meat.
And it’s hardly a thing for a Christian to eat.

It’ll blow out ol’ Lefty and wrinkle your teats.

It chews like placenta, sebaceous and black.
If you see one outside, tie it up in a sack.
You can give it away, but it always crawls back.
For it tastes like the drip from a cameltoe’s crack.

It's evil, immoral, and bad to the core.
And it’s cursed with a smell I find hard to ignore.
It’ll shoot out your ass, but you’ll ask for some more.
Why, I split one last week with a pre-operative whore.

The Tewkesbury Pudding, it’s worse than you think.
It enlarges the heart, but your nuk-nuk will shrink.
When you're done shitting blood, well, you’ll need a stiff drink.
Jesus Christ, light a match, hit the fan, clean the sink!

The Tewskbury Pudding is banned where I’m from
For it tastes like a turd that’s been sprinkled with rum.
Open wide, hold your nose, plug your ass with your thumb!
In the wink of an eye, your hair pie will go numb.

It'll cripple your gut with intestinal flu.
It'll ripple your twat like a fleshy kazoo.
Throw your hands to the sky and ask God what to do!
Make the sign of the cross (even though you’re a Jew.)


--Arthur Greenleaf Holmes, 1588