“God preserve us! Who is that immoral
bounder on the hill, wielding that club,
no top hat upon his head, nor laurel,
his chalky heathen member physically
excited?” “Well, sir, he’s the man we dub
Cernunnos, Celtic god of fertility!”
“Is he now? Well, if you were a patriot
and not some stumpy-fingered rustic Zulu,
you wouldn’t stand there smelling of turnip and apricot,
you’d cover up that pervert! Come now, follow
me with your wheelbarrow. We’ll fix this voodoo
indeed, what wicked pish you peasants swallow!
Cernunnos, Celtic god of fertility
indeed, what wicked pish you peasants swallow!”
