There was a young poet called Keats,
Lay dying in the Italian streets,
He said, pray be canny,
And get me dear Fanny,
For I die in my vapours and heats.
The poets ran out of their doors,
To get dying Johnny some whores,
Said, this one is fat,
But she’s got a good twat,
And she’s clear of infection and sores.
But Keats, he let out a loud groan,
I must have dear Fanny alone,
She’s the love of my life,
My beloved and wife,
Pray get her so I can atone.
So they sent out some desperate mail,
To the whores in the old Newgate Jail,
Said, get him some Fanny,
Some Doris or Annie,
Before he is dead as a nail.
But Keats, he went out of his head,
And he ranted and raved in his bed,
I'm a real desperate mannie,
Pray get me my Fanny,
But as he jumped up he keeled over dead.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved