Bermondsey Industries - the 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.


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