OR -
From 'Mr Gladstone's Bag' in St Andrew's Hall, Norwich, early 80's.

I only heard it once, went home and wrote it down, and have rarely dared to sing it, though I think it one of the funniest things ever, when sung totally straight-faced to 'The Church's one foundation' which I play on a piano accordion with all the stops out!


The dogs they had a party, they came from near and far,
and some dogs came by taxi, and some dogs came by car;
they went into the cloakroom to sign the visitors' book
and each dog hung its arsehole upon a numbered hook.

They filed into the dining room, each mother, son and sire
until some dirty mongrel rushed in and shouted, 'Fire!'
They ran out from the dining room without a backward look,
and each took another's arsehole from off a numbered hook.

It is the strangest feeling; a feeling seldom known,
to wear someone else's arsehole where once one wore ones own;
and that's the reason why sir, while wandering far from home
each dog sniffs another's arsehole to see if it's his own.


Typed from memory after about 30 years with pauses only to wipe my eyes! Ah, the power of song.

~ quanter