Happy birthday, Mr Vic.,
pull your neck in mighty quick.
Powers of darkness crowd you thick
poised to hurl their half a brick,
nail bomb, acid, coshing stick;
for they fear your faith, the sick.
Turn your collar, rev’rend gent.,
only cloth-heads heaven-sent
(ask the devil where they went).
Lares and penates bent,
morals murdered, time near spent -
did you see which way they went?
Still you must fight?
So then.
Lug the cross up, shepherd guv.,
nail the flag of hope above,
spin the devil down to die;
“Horns to bonemeal!” crack your cry,
joy the password, love the spur.
Happy birthday, David, sir.
(Undated, 1972?)
