Monologue Boy

Monologue Boy (or The Green Thigh of the Little Yellow Sod)

There’s a seedy Chinese laundry to the south of Waterloo
And a dirty doss house just beyond the track,
With a broken hearted policeman grieving for his lost love Wu
And the days he cherished, opening his crack.

He was known as Fatman Pugh to the tramps round Waterloo,
A British Bobby, stern and jovial in turn;
But he worked his truncheon tight up the arse of them as might
Let him fuck them with it while they ate his sperm.

His true love was Charlie Wu, famed for sweet and sour stew,
And the son of Old Ma Wu, the launderess.
Charlie’s yellow skin was’t fairest Fatman Pugh had ever seen
But his leg was a strange colour nonetheless.

For, as everybody knows, laund’ries don’t just wash the clothes,
They die them; it’s a well known fact,
And Charlie’s fate at birth, since then a cause for mirth,
Was to have his mother drop him in the vat.

They scrubbed the baby with a brush and then carbolic soap
And their efforts were rewarded like a dream.
Charlie’s sallow skin now pristine would have pleased the emperor Ming
But his right thigh stayed a vivid shade of green.

Pugh and Wu would often jaunt to a homosexual haunt
(The Vauxhall Tavern was the ONLY place to go).
Charlie minced both up and down ’midst the drag queens on the town
Leaving PC Pugh to just look on and grow.

Pugh’s anger and frustration grew, just as did his dick,
And he took the boy to task, I do not lie,
But Charlie was enamoured with a trannie known as Chick
Pugh could see they would be rutting by and by.

Fatman Pugh whipped out his truncheon, thinking ‘This’ll do the trick,
‘I’ll show the boy the long arm of the law.’
But Wu’s already bending down and taking in Chick’s prick
Quite deep enough to make his arsehole sore.

Fatman Pugh walked out the tavern and arrested an old tramp,
Whom he buggered mercilessly in the cells,
And all the while he done it, thought unkindly of young Wu
Who was probably still taking seven bells.

So now Pugh’s a lonely copper, though his hair was never red,
And each and every night he curses God.
Sad Pugh recalls now lovingly the times he’d rest his head
On the green thigh of that little yellow sod.

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This is another parody of a Billy Bennett parody. The paradigm for it was probably the most performed monologue of the Victorian and Edwardian eras: “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God” by J. Milton Hayes. The Vauxhall Tavern still exists and was (last time I looked) a popular cruising place.