On a bed with a pillow a little round boy
Said “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And I said to him, “Son, does it give you much joy,
Singing ‘Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle’”
“Is it weakness of intellect, Hughie?” I cried
“Or a Mummy-juice glut in your little inside”
With a shake of his bald little head, he replied
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle!”

He viewed me intently with never a smile,
Singing “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And kicked with his dear little feet all the while,
Saying squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle
He snorked and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave
Then a look of relief made his features less grave
And an odour arose from the pants of that knave,
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”

Now I’m fairly convinced that no diction’ry yet
Contains squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle.
However, I’m sure I shall never forget
His “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And if you need translation to figure it out,
Examine his nappy, and you’ll have no doubt
Of the matter he’s seeking to tell us about:
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”