I met her in Lytchett Matravers,  (1)
She sure was a beautiful sight,
Embalming the wrinkled cadavers
Of oldsters who'd died in the night.

"Oi'm French as that tower of Oiffel,
As French as they charolet cows."
I listened not - I'd got an eyeful
Of what was half-hid 'neath her blouse.

I managed to pay some attention:
"Then how come your Dorsettshire drawl?"
"You hark dear, to what Oi will mention,
That signifies nothing at all.

"Oi'm talking 'bout reincarnation,"
She said, flashing more of her tits.
"Oi'm Joanie of Arc.  The French nation
All loved me when Oi fought you Brits."

Continued she her ministrations,
As over her client she bows,
Confiding such strange revelations,
As lower yet still slipped her blouse.

So, (stripped of the Dorset phonetics,)
I'll relay her exploits of old,
And fans of L Ron's dianetics
Will b'lieve every word that you're told.   (2)

  * * *

I tended the sheep in Domremy,
And let the rams tup me eadch spring,
But found that their spunk was too gamey,
So set off to visit the king.

I preached him the word of Ron Hubbard,
And told him that God's on our side,
Then snuck to a nearby broom cupboard,
And gave all his courtiers a ride.

I told the dumn king the next battle
He fought with the English he'd lose.
(he'd lost all the rest, so my prattle
Should not have been such -shattering news.)

But somehow that forecast impressed him,
I saw now my pathway was clear,  (3)
He giggled and let me undress him,
And smiled as he tickled my rear.

Like French kings all, Charlie was barmy;   (4)
He called me "ma petite poubelle",   (5)
Then put me in charge of his army,
To give all you English boys hell.

I led them to rack and to Rouen;   
I'm caught by Sir Tony, a Brit,
And there, while he's getting a brew on,   (6)
I quickly get out of my kit.

He treats me real nice, does Sir Tony,
And feeds me on faggots and chips,   (7)
Then strips... boy, he's built like a pony,
And thrusts that great stake 'twixt my hips.

I guess then I died of pure pleasure,
For that's all my mem'ry imparts.
I come to this morgue in my leisure,
To find one with equal sized parts.

For surely this thing is genetic,
And if I find that corpse's son,
My lustfulness will be frenetic,
Until I too die of such fun.

  * * *

On me, now, her life was dependent,
I gave her no sight of my glans;
Sir Antony Ogg's last descendant
Don't want a dead tart on his hands.

  * * *

Notes for anyone bored enough to read 'em.

(1) Dorset town.
(2) L Ron Hubbard, ancestor of Enron Hubbard, science fiction writer and founder of the scientology cult.
(3) Clear: the supreme state of scientological ecstasy, achieved by studying Ron's crap and paying him money to the value of half Saudi Arabia's oil reserves.
(4) crazy.
(5) If my schoolboy French is remembered correctly, that means dustbin (trash can.) Joan fans claim she was called la pucelle, meaning maid or virgin, but as you can see from this account from the mare's mouth, that is a slight terminological inexactitude.
(6) making tea - he's English for heaven's sake!
(7) Traditional English meal, which lousy French cooks never acquired the knack of producing, preferring to sod about with frogs and snails.

This, obviously, is the true Joan story, but plenty of pale French-distorted variants may be found on the net.

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Tuesday, June 10, 2003