This is the story of a hot water bottle called Arthur,
Who lived in the village of Cream of Tarter,
Where the villagers traded corn for barter,
Except for Arthur, ‘cause he was smarter.
Arthur kept them warm at night,
Arthur helped them with stage fright,
Arthur there till morning bright,
Banished nightmare hours from sight.
Then one day the sun it shone,
The snow and ice were truly gone,
Boys hung Arthur from a hook,
Forgot him like some childish book.
Cavorting on the summer’s nights,
Completely cured of winter’s frights,
But the blossoms quickly bloomed,
Harvest came and Autumn loomed,
Nights grew longer,
Winds grew stronger,
And the folks of Cream of Tarter
Said it’s time we sent for Arthur.
But his cupboard now was bare,
Arthur simply wasn’t there,
And though everyone did look,
‘Was no sign of him on his hook.
The rain it fell, the wind it blew,
People shivered as snow flew,
Nights were cold and dark and dreary,
Without comfort for the weary,
And they all cried out as one,
Where is he, what have we done?
The schools deserted,
Frightened folks sat by their fires,
Visualising funeral pyres,
And Arthur heard their dirge of form,
From the beach at Benidorm.
Now they want me, now they haunt me,
Call my name across the moor,
Now they beg me, now they peg me,
Seek me with their frightened spoor.
But, said Arthur, Cream of Tarter,
Will no more my service see,
For they wrung me and they hung me,
They get just two words from me,
From my beach house,
By the sea.