The following is a poem written by my Dad sometime in the early 70s to my Mum. Some of the terms may be outdated now, for which I appologise for if they cause distress. I've published it here in memory of my Dad.
Elephant in jungle dies,
Far away from prying eyes,
Where they go no one knows,
Secret types those sick jumbos.
Lemmings into the sea rush they,
For sharks and others – easy prey,
Japanese out on their luck,
On their own swords – get stuck.
Disembowelled Japs go six foot under,
And because they are dead it is no wonder,
Japs and Lemmings suicide commit,
So far no mystery in what I’ve writ.
Apart from jumbo who hides away,
But sceptics shake their heads and say,
To believe this tale is very hard,
There’s no such thing as an elephants graveyard.
However a chilling mystery remains,
Not one of ghosts or rattling chains,
But one so terrible to retell,
One that came from the depths of hell,
One ghastly story full of shocks,
The case of Eaton’s missing socks.
The story goes back some years in the past,
To a collection of socks never surpassed,
To people who saw them it caused a sensation,
It was without doubt, the best in the nation.
Then slowly at first, things started to happen,
The first ones to go had a blue stripey pattern,
One pair to Eaton wasn’t much loss,
Although at the time he was rather cross.
Disappearances followed thick and fast,
A once fine collection was down to the last,
New purchases were made to replenish the stocks,
But still they went missing despite chains and locks.
A marked sock was planted and watched day and night,
For two weeks solids it was never out of sight,
The watch was called off, and considered a flop,
Whoever heard of a vanishing sock?
Now Eaton (a shrewd type) decided to track
The passage of socks to the washtub and back,
The bedroom they left, the washtub they reached,
But return they did not “ITS MY WIFE” Eaton screeched,
Guilty party was found, and he sentenced the wife,
To sex for a fortnight and darning for life.