Was Christmas day in the Workhouse when the pudding came on view.
The Currants they where many, the Raisens they where few.
Up got an old time warrior who'd thought in the Khyber pass, "I don't want no Christmas pudding, so shove it up your Ass".
This soon aroused the workhouse master, who swore by all the Gods, "You won't get no Christmas pudding, you dirty rotten Sods".