Arthur Schnitzel made a pudding,
Made it in a pudding tin,
He inserted lots of raisins,
And put many almonds in.
In went cream, and nuts, and treacle,
In went tubs of fromage frais,
In went handfuls of confetti,
Onions, beef, a bit of hay,
Arthurs stirred in shredded suet,
Poured in milk and oil and brine,
Mixed in half a pound of dripping,
Added just a twist of lime,
Sifted flour and also talcum,
Stirred it with a DM boot,
Sixteen eggs, a splash of sherry,
Sausage meat and beans and soot,
Slices of potassium sorbate,
There to add a touch of class,
Then to make the pudding crunchy,
In went crisps and powdered glass,
Grinning, Arthur milked a pigeon,
Used its lactate to add spice,
Ladled in a long-dead chipmunk,
Sprinkled over powdered lice,
Baked his pudding for an hour,
Then another, then some more,
Two days later, Arthur's oven,
Billowed smoke under the door.
Arthur Schnitzel took his spoon out,
Viewed the pudding he had sired,
Arthur Schnitzel ate a mouthful,
Smiled and belched, looked shocked, expired.
If you seek this story's moral,
It is obvious to see:
Do not make a splendid pudding,
When you lack a recipe.
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