The Tale of Marmaduke Mullet

Sir Marmaduke Mullet, an inebriate old bugger,
Arrived late for tea, and pissed in the sugar,
Dear Lady Harcourt issued a piercing, long scream
As he shook off the drops into a pot of fresh cream.

But later, when sober, as excuse for these sins,
Explained he had quaffed down fourteen large gins
While partaking of lunch at his dour City club,
Then ventured on to some cheap Whitehall pub
Where sampled three yards of Northern brown ale,
Chased by half a firkin of Czech pilsner pale.

Now feeling quite mellow, espied an old naval chum
And together imbibed several noggings of rum,
Until thunder erupted, to herald a deluge of rain,
So swapped their tipples to Guinness and champagne.

“Aha, ‘tis near teatime,” Mullet informed the Royal Naval feller,
“I’m off to Lord Harcourt’s, may I borrow your umbrella?”
Then the old saloon clock struck a sure count of four,
And Marmaduke Mullet staggered out through the door
Where rain fell in torrents, from skies black as night,
With nary a carriage nor cab in plain sight.

So, best foot forward, Mullet set out at a dash,
With rivulets of rain dripping from his moustache,
Across both the park, then over the heath,
With a smouldering briar pipe still clenched twix his teeth,
To arrive rather sodden at the Harcourt’s front door
Just as a rainbow dispersed the downpour.

Albeit he was an hour, and more, late,
With the serving of tea his hosts decided to wait,
While fumed Lady Harcourt, renown in that locality,
For being a stickler on schedule and punctuality.
Then in staggered Mullet, besotted by alcoholic haze,
And promptly emptied his bladder into a Ming vase.
“Incontinence!” he cried, “’Tis a sign of old age.”
As Lady Harcourt shuddered, smouldering with rage.
Then next to Reverend Berrick he collapsed in a heap,
Curled up on the sofa, and was taken by sleep,
Until shortly awoke with a bladder-bursting start,
Swung his feet to the floor and loosed a huge fart,
Promptly unbuttoned his flies without shame or blush,
And flooded the sugar bowl with a urinary gush.

With protocols diplomatic, the butler showed Mullet the door,
And advised him, in whispers, to return there no more.
So, ye lunch-time imbibers, let this a stern lesson be
If you are ever invited to the Harcourt’s for tea,
Avoid embarrassing incontinence, be a well-prepared chappie,
And rig out beforehand, with a geriatric nappy.