Pedigree

Freud’s mistress wore a Freudian slip, which caught a screw
And tore off. The good doctor, Herr Doctor,
Opened his trunk and in she jumped.
Where was he taking her? She didn’t know.
It was to be a long dark journey with little respite.
Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, he joked.

At the Royal Ascot Racecourse
It was a lovely day for prancing about.
The men wore mourning dress and the women
Wore spats and argued frequently with their popcorn.
It was the renowned Unconscious Stakes and the course
Was being prepared for a day of heavy trotting.

My companion, Father Popper, was in high spirits
Over the steeplechase, which he could see no solution to,
And the horses were off to a mild start.
We were scanning the stands,
And there was doctor Freud!
A pale woman clung to his frock coat.

Was he freshly in love? He blew rings with his cigar
And she put her finger through them.
There were tall thunderheads in the distance
And the thumping of the hooves
Made me instantly giddy to be tied up and whipped
By an excommunicated tobacconist with a dark moustache.