I learned this from Allan Cust in about 1955. He was my “supervising tradesman” when I began my apprenticeship at the Fremantle Printing Company, Western Australia. Allan had survived being a Prisoner of War on the infamous Burma Railway, with a bayonet scar running from the collar bone on his right-hand side to above the hip on the left to prove it. I only knew that because I caught him changing his singlet in the paper store one afternoon.
It was Christmas in the poorhouse, and the supervisor swore by all the gods,
There’d be no Christmas pudding for this bunch of wretched yobs;
Up stood a worthy pensioner, her face as bold as brass:
“We don’t want your Christmas pudding, shove it up your arse.”