A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS
(c) John Lennon, 1965


CONTENTS

A Spaniard in the Works
The Fat Budgie
Snore Wife and some Several Dwarts
The Singularge Experience of Miss Anne Duffield
The Faulty Bagnose
We must not forget the General Erection
Benjaman Distasteful
The Wumberlog (or The Magic Dog)
Araminta Ditch
Cassandle
The National Health Cow
Readers Lettuce
Silly Norman
Mr Boris Morris
Bernice's Sheep
Last Will and Testicle
Our Dad
I Believe, Boot...



A SPANIARD IN THE WORKS

Jesus El Pifco was a foreigner and he knew it. He had imigrate-
ful from his little white slum in Barcelover a good thirsty year
ago having first secured the handy job as coachman in Scotland.
The job was with the Laird of McAnus, a canny old tin whom
have a castle in the Highlads. The first thing Jesus EI Pifco
noticed in early the days was that the Laird didn't seem to have
a coach of any discription or even a coach house you know,
much to his dismable. But - and I use the word lightly - the
Laird did seem to having some horses, each one sporting a fine
pair of legs. Jesus fell in love with them at first sight, as they did
with him, which was lucky, because his quarters were in the
actually stables along side his noble four lepered friends.
Pretty polly one could see Jesus almost every day, grooming
his masters horses, brushing their manebits and hammering their
teeth, whistling a quaint Spanish refrain dreaming of his loved
wombs back home in their little white fascist bastard huts.
'A well pair of groomed horses I must say,' he would remark
to wee Spastic Sporran the flighty chamberlain, whom he'd had
his good eye on eversince Hogmanose.
'Nae sa bad' she would answer in her sliced Aberdeen-martin
accent. 'Ye spend more time wi' yon horses than ye do wi'
me,' with that she would storm back to her duties, carefully
tying her chastity negro hardly to her skim.
Being a good catholic, Jesus wiped the spit from his face and
turned the other cheese - but she had gone leaving him once
small in an agatha of christy.
'One dave she woll go too farther, and I woll leaf her' he said
to his fave rave horse. Of course the horse didn't answer,
because as you know they cannot speak, least of all to a garlic
eating, stinking, little yellow greasy fascist bastard catholic
Spaniard. They soon made it up howevans and Jesus and wee
Spastic were once morphia unitely in a love that knew no suzie.
The only thing that puzzled Jesus was why his sugarboot got so
annoyed when he called her his little Spastic in public. Little
wonder howeapon, with her real name being Patrick, you see?
'Ye musna' call me Spastic whilst ma friends are here Jesus
ma bonnie wee dwarf' she said irragated.
'But I cannot not say Patrick me little tartan bag' he replied
all herb and angie inside. She looked down at him through a
mass of naturally curly warts.
'But Spastic means a kind of cripple in English ma sweet wee
Jesus, and ai'm no