Tune, Derry Down.
My muse, t’other day, having laughter in view,
Selected George Gordon, the now no more Jew,
Resolving to state, with Mosaic precision,
What befel poor Crop’s P— on the late circumcision.
The Rabbi appear’d, and the Christian’s foreskin
Was about to be banish’d, to cleanse Crop of sin;
But Gentiles and Jews, mark the cream of the joke,
By Prometheus inspir’d, his P— suddenly spoke.
Tho’ with fear first poor P—o had prudently shrunk,
And, like snail in its shell, snugly hid lay his trunk;
To the Priest then he cry’d, put your knife in its case,
Or, you terrible Cut P—k, I’ll piss in your face.
My Lord stood amaz’d, and the Rabbi was mum,
To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb;
Tho’ Crop said his P— ne’er obey’d his command,
But always lay down when he wish’d him to stand.
This damnable riot in Crop’s private part,
Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art,
So he swore, if P— did not cease making a route,
He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.
Not a crab-louse car’d P— for the Priest and his laws;
He stood up for his prepuce, and spoke to the cause;
His language was nervous, his reasoning clear,
And he spoke full as well as the Members elsewhere.
Your life, cry’d he, Crop’s a mere mock of devotion;
Well spoken, said Cods, who was backing each motion;
Such conduct, he said, combin’d madness and sin;
And Cods swore his friend P— should sleep in a whole skin.
Now in Akerman’s synagogue Crop’s got a place,
A beard like a Jew doth his pious front grace;
In time ’tis to grow so enormously big,
As to make TOMMY ERSKINE a full-bottom’d wig.
Mr. P—, said Crop, to turn Turk I intend,
And ’mongst smack and smooth eunuchs my days will I end;
Poor P— took the hint, and did woefully weep,
Till his flesh cap flipp’d o’er him, then he fell asleep.