In Stencilton, there lies our scene
But out of all its suburbs green
There stands beneath the sun, just one
Where I would sojourn till I’m gone.
The people come, the people gape
To see the likeness of an ape
But mere sensation will not thrill
The folk who live on Turtle Hill.
Ah yes, the folk on Turtle Hill!
They wish you only good, not ill
Their faces clean, their shoes are neat
Their speech is sober and discreet
They work by day, they sleep by night
They shun the dark and love the light
So is it wonder that I still
Would spend my life on Turtle Hill?
Since Soso people rarely smile
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile
And Porlock girls are mean and dirty;
There’s none in Bentown under thirty
And folks in Melville and those parts
Have twisted lips and twisted hearts
And when it’s getting dark, of nights
You shouldn’t go to Fierov Heights
While in the City Undersea
Live people of iniquity
And things are done to harmless goats
You’d not believe, unless you lived in Doats…
In Shamshire they fling oaths at one,
And worse than oaths at Bobbleton,
In Dylar they make foolish rhymes
And Wanga’s full of nameless crimes
You’d gag if you could see the spectrum
Of evil wrought in awful Plectrum
Strong men have run for miles and miles
When one from Merry Gambols smiles
And things are done you’d not believe
At Cheerio on Christmas Eve;
Strong men have blanched and shot their cats
Rather than take them to Huizingaplatz…
But Turtle Hill, ah, Turtle Hill,
Where every tree and every rill
Conspire to please, and every breeze
Invites you softly, ‘take your ease,’
Do they still stand, that charming row
Of houses that in Winter snow
Or Summer zephyrs, seem to say
‘With all our hearts, we hope you’ll stay’
Oh absinthe, make my heart grow fonder
For soon I’ll bend my steps o’er yonder
Dreaming, as I drink my fill,
Of heav’nly pie, upon a windowsill.
