For your backside's as big as a bus! Let me get you a doctor. I know just the man For a Knid with a nasty disease. He's a butcher by trade which is not a bad plan, And he charges quite reasonable fees. Ah, here he is now! 'Doc, you really are kind To travel so far into space. There's your patient, the Knid with the purple behind! Do you think it's a desperate case?' 'Great heavens above! It's no wonder he's pale!' Said the doc with a horrible grin. 'There's a sort of balloon on the end of his tail! I must prick it at once with a pin!' So he got out a thing like an Indian spear, With feathers all over the top, And he lunged and he caught the Knid smack in the rear, But alas, the balloon didn't pop! Cried the Knid, 'What on earth am I going to do With this painful preposterous lump? I can't remain standing the whole summer through! And I cannot sit down on my rump!' 'It's a bad case of rear-ache,' the medico said, 'And it's something I cannot repair. If you want to sit down, you must sit on your head, With your bottom high up in the air!'' On the day when all this was happening, no factories opened anywhere in the world. All offices and schools were closed. Nobody moved away from the television screens, not even for a couple of minutes to get a Coke or to feed the baby. The tension was unbearable. Everybody heard the American President's invitation to the men from Mars to visit him in the White House. And they heard the weird rhyming reply, which sounded rather threatening. They also heard a piercing scream (Grandma Josephine), and a little later on, they heard someone shouting, 'Scram! Scram! Scram!' (Mr Wonka). Nobody could make head or tail of the shouting. They took it to be some kind of Martian language. But when the eight mysterious astronauts suddenly rushed back into their glass capsule and broke away from the Space Hotel, you could almost hear the great sigh of relief that rose up from the peoples of the earth. Telegrams and messages poured into the White House congratulating the President upon his brilliant handling of a frightening situation.
The President himself remained calm and thoughtful. He sat at his desk rolling a small piece of wet chewing- gum between his finger and thumb. He was waiting for the moment when he could flick it at Miss Tibbs without her seeing him. He flicked it and missed Miss Tibbs but hit the Chief of the Air Force on the tip of his nose.
'Do you think the men from Mars have accepted my invitation to the White House?' the President asked.
'Of course they have,' said the Foreign Secretary. 'It was a brilliant speech, sir.'
'They're probably on their way down here right now,' said Miss Tibbs. 'Go and wash that nasty sticky chewing-gum off your fingers quickly. They could be here any minute.'
'Let's have a song first,' said the President. 'Sing another one about me, Nanny… please.'
THE NURSE'S SONG This mighty man of whom I sing, The greatest of them all, Was once a teeny little thing, Just eighteen inches tall. I knew him as a tiny tot. I nursed him on my knee. I used to sit him on the pot And wait for him to wee. I always washed between his toes, And cut his little nails. I brushed his hair and wiped his nose And weighed him on the scales. Through happy childhood days he strayed, As all nice children should. I smacked him when he disobeyed, And stopped when he was good. It soon began to dawn on me He wasn't very bright, Because when he was twenty-three He couldn't read or write. 'What shall we do?' his parents sobbed. 'The boy has got the vapours! He couldn't even get a job Delivering the papers!' 'Ah-ha,' I said. 'This little clot Could be a politician.' 'Nanny,' he cried. 'Oh Nanny, what A super proposition!' 'Okay,' I said. 'Let's learn and note The art of politics. Let's teach you how to miss the boat And how to drop some bricks, And how to win the people's vote And lots of other tricks. Let's learn to make a speech a day Upon the TV screen, In which you never never say Exactly what you mean. And most important, by the way, Is not to let your teeth decay, And keep your fingers clean.' And now that I am eighty-nine, It's too late to repent. The fault was mine the little swine
