The trouble with Henri his pauvre mère said
Is he suffers from ennui, won’t get out of bed
He won’t put his feet on the tedious floor
The thought of a shower’s a terrible bore
He’s resting he tells her, in between lulls
He’d flick through a book but they’re horribly dull
He goes to the toilet but just cos he must
He’d stay out of bed but he just can’t be fussed
Attempts to amuse him are met with a sigh
He says he would titter but he can’t quite see why
His Mum hopes that Amazon will end her sorrow
The dynamite’s ordered – it turns up tomorrow