Sinbad Hoonjaw ran amok. He fried some bean sprouts in a wok. And then he stuffed them in a sock, for he is quite the nutter.

Sinbad Hoonjaw went astray. He lay down on a bale of hay. He ate a bowl of Special K, then threw up in the gutter.

Oh dearest Sinbad, take this clump, a clump of posies for your sprains, I plucked it at the council dump, oh dear dear Sinbad rattle your chains.

The finest fellow that ever there was, I sing for Sinbad today because Sinbad Hoonjaw’s eyes are blue, and the number of eyes is thirty-two.

Thirty-two eyes? Can that be so? And twenty feet from top to toe? A giant Sinbad with too many eyes? Or is it just a clever disguise?

Is he a dwarf in a paper suit? Does anybody give a hoot? You say he’s twee, you say he’s cute. For he is Sinbad Hoonjaw.

But I have news you’ll hate to hear. He is about to disappear. Oh do not sob a salty tear. Weep not for Sinbad Hoonjaw.

He was only ever a clutch of syllables, jaw and bad and hoon and sin.
Now spit them out and into the bin.
The dustbin of words, where you forage for meaning,
Like George Formby, while window-cleaning.
You’re up so high where the air is thin
Now spit the words out into the bin.