There was a young cyclist named Joe
Was a glutton for blackberries you know;
When he got on the scent
To those bushes he went –
He’d show ‘em the way they should go!
Now this here young cyclist named Joe
Inside him the berries could stow
Till you’d fear at first
That he’d jolly soon burst
If he didn’t cease making them flow!
But a marvellous fellow was Joe
He always knew where they would grow
And before you got there
The bush was picked bare
And most of another, I trow.
But disaster was coming on Joe
His breath came laboriously slow:
He packed himself tight –
He ‘clocked out’ that night
And we buried him near where they grow.
So take heed all ye who would go
To try the same game as poor Joe
In the fruit there’s a grub
If it gets in your tub
You’ll hand in your checks and join Joe!