Christmas in the Poorhouse

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.

Christmas Dinner 2019, Vale Nursing Home South Australia. Photo courtesy Revd Andrew Klein (Chaplain)/Twitter

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.”

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