Number 112, A Real Man's Man

A Real Man’s Man.

Admiral Lord Nelson, solemn,

Stands there lonely on his column,

Looking out towards the south;

Some pigeon droppings on his mouth.

Horatio Nelson sailed in ships,

And as he died, upon his lips

He asked poor Hardy for a kiss;

I don’t know if he relished this,

But Nelson said ‘don’t be too tardy…

Hurry up and kiss me Hardy’!

No-one really knows for sure,

What he wanted kissing for!

I guess he died a happy man;

He’d done as much as one man can,

At least back then his face was clean,

No pigeon droppings then, I mean,

Just the blood and sweat and tears,

A little dandruff by his ears.

Not that Hardy would refrain,

Nor he be likely to complain;

No matter what the order be,

You could rely on old Hardy,

And so he got his dying wish,

Among the stench of war and fish. 

Unlike some others he did not,

Want his body left to rot,

In the sea for sharks to eat;

Gobbled up from head to feet.

And so they stuck him in a tun,

Brought him home when all was done,

Pickled through and through he was,

With brandy, rum and all because,

He guessed he would be given a

Pretty fancy funeral day,

And then a place between the walls,

Somewhere deep below St Paul’s.

And now he lies there in his grave,

In the crypt beneath the nave,

Underneath the grey flag stones

That is where you’ll find his bones.

© Stephen Saunders