MAJOR FOVEAUX’S CRINKUM CRANKUM

This hell-fire Major cusses me with devilry, calls me Hell-hag;

            when e’s less fiery-tempered, then its ‘mort’ or ‘bat’ or ‘baggage’.

 

            His name?  Foveaux, a right whoremonger, makes me skin crawl

            E’d threaten to buss me rump n truss me up to them dread Triangles

 

            Thursday nights on Norfolk, us trollops perform in the barracks

Dances of the Mermaids where the sojers swarm with rum or arrack

 

            Foveaux pisses hisself seein how us molls swoon and fret n turn white

            so fearful iz us to spare the pain n blushes that we must bare our privates

 

            Yeah, e’s goatish.  Iz joy iz curryin hide n threatens any piece o’ mutton

            or means to break a lance with a bit o hair or bit o’ muslin

 

            I’d wish one day ter see im dance upon nothin, big peepers poppin out

            iz tongue too.  I’d dash iz brains, lash iz buttocks n smack iz foul mouth

 

            Coz us molls shrink like mice, he’d make whores of us wenches, one n all

            shiverin with fear afore the goggle-eyed coves and cracking cat o nine tails

 

            One of us naked morts is always trussed up to the triangle with dread

            As the mad dog flogger fingers iz tails and whips yer flesh to mess o blood

 

I’m no flash piece o mutton, but knows in me heart the slow burn of dander

            dancin naked n jigglin afore this braggart bully, this ogling Pandar

 

            When Major Bawd orders, ‘Gill-flirts, wiggle-wiggle!  Let’s see some scut!’

            a sinister smile curls iz lips when he realises our agony, our fear o the rut

           

            Fuddled and pickled, the devil to pay, our line o tarts begins to sway

            Then wiggle navels n act hot-arsed else Major Bawd’d flail away

 

            ‘Take the starch out o reg’lars n lags!  Stoke the embers and inflame the lads!’

            cries that gloating blackguard Foveaux, the Devil’s bodyguard, egad!

 

            Or iz larruping mad-dog flogger, iz lickspittle, would lay yer back open

            leavin it quiverin a bloody mess o’ switches, weals, stings n lacerations

 

Remember lurchin at sea nine months?  Flyin the red flag reg’lar, more sicknin than flyin

from the redcoats with their own rector of the women prickin

 

                                                                                                Michael Small

July 12-July 26, 2018

 

Joseph Foveaux (1767-1846), born and died in England, was a competent soldier and administrator in colonial New South Wales.  In 1800 he offered to serve as Lieutenant Governor on Norfolk Island, where his sadistic reputation was more questionable.