Whilst we're doing children's rhymes, here's the final number from our sketch show earlier this year. The formatting's gone all to pot in the pasting, but you'll have to live with that!
ANNOUNCER: And now, on Listen With Mother, The Cat In The Hat, adapted for
radio by Tennessee Williams.
NARRATOR: The sun did not shine, and the rain was uncouth
So we sat in our house with its noisy tin roof.
Said Stella,
STELLA: That roof is a terrible pain,
It rattles and clattles with each drop of rain.
NARRATOR: What's needed, said I, is a fixer for hire,
Who'll get here as fast as a car named Desire.
STELLA: An expert on rooves with some skills secretarial,
Preferably feline, in garb millinerial.
NARRATOR: Said Stella. I said, we've got nothing like that,
When in walked a cat in a vibrant pink hat.
CAT: I'm the cat in the hat
NARRATOR: He cried
CAT: Have a banana!
I've been working all night with my chum, the iguana.
I'm a roofer by trade, and yours looks ineffectual.
NARRATOR: Said Stella,
STELLA: Excuse me, are you homosexual?
CAT: I am
NARRATOR: Said the cat
CAT: But I think it's better for
It not to be stated. I'm sort of a metaphor.
NARRATOR: Never mind that, I said, let's change the roof.
The cat hatted poofter said
CAT: Surely you goof.
It's an evident truth, I'd be long in the tooth
Before I should climb on a skinny tin roof.
That roof is tin, that tin is thin,
If I climbed up I'd fall right in.
I once had a friend I called Galvanised Jim
Who used to do roofing on rooves made of tin,
He died on one, suddenly, just this last summer.
STELLA: Just do it,
NARRATOR: Said Stella,
STELLA: You twat-hatted bummer.
NARRATOR: So the cat polished up his menagerie glasses,
He walked out the door and he made a few passes,
He looked at the roof, and the roof looked at him,
That treacherous corrugate deathtrap of tin.
And he climbed on the roof and he slipped and he died,
So we both grabbed a leg and we dragged him inside,
And we smashed up his hat, and we took off our clothes
And we put on our special white Ku Klux Klan robes,
And we went to the town, and we beat up some blacks,
And we found some old friends and we went round in packs,
And we found all the poets, and told them they're losers,
Made sensitive boys into lonely old boozers,
Cause 50s America's brutal, that's certain,
So bring up the house lights and bring down the curtain.
