Bermondsey Industries - the Pure Finder
PURE FINDER I am an Old Pure Finder, yes pure is the word What I find, me and my kind, you might find absurd I searches out what lurchers left, it’s a strange kind of job Picking up a job or two, to pick up just two bob. I am an Old Pure Finder, when folks say “How d’ya do?” Says I, “Well, I do doodoo and do do well don’t you?” I do doodoo so well, when the doodoo I do sell, But could do doodoo better if the doodoo didn’t smell. I am an Old Pure Finder, and often privvy to Evacuation information, where the dung is new. As canine clay collector I tries to do my bit At the places with the faeces and the spots where doggies hit. I am an Old Pure Finder, a retriever of the mess And not the kind of job to do, unless done to ex-cess Riches come from bitches, as I work dern hard Accruing Basset assets, whilst praying to St Bernard I am an Old Pure Finder and Miss Brown down our street Smiles, beguilingly and looks at me so sweet. She knows what I wants, as she walks around And lets her mighty Mastiff for to litter on the ground. I am an Old Pure Finder, Miss Brown's Boxer he's a champ Which leaves a lot to be desired and all of it quite damp. I wished he had a family, says she “Oh, haven’t you heard? There’ll be no pups popping-up, he has been doctered.” I am an Old Pure Finder, & reporters from the press Come to me, for a scoop, though one he did confess, In passing, was just dropping-by, said this newshound chap But asked a lot of questions, just to write his load of clap trap I am an Old Pure Finder & strive for self improvement I adore orchestral music, like Beethoven's final movement And study at the Kennel Club which is a hard slog But, if asked to pick a favourite, ’twould be sausage dog.