When I were a duck I'd clean all the muck From my mate Pig's dirty pen It's a job and a half but I'd end with a bath To make me all sqeaky again The trouble of course is Harry the horse And his clomping which wakes me at night I have an idea, though a little bit queer I fancy I'll get him a bike Instead of him trotting on fruit that is rotting I'd give him a mighty great push But if he returned and my ears were concerned I'd say "Harry, excuse me but shoosh"