Nicodemus rode a camel,
when he entered Marco Square.
The camel’s name was Kevin
and they’d travelled everywhere.
Kevin the camel (or Kev, for breve)
was feeling kinda bunched.
Nicodemus, too, was feeling blue,
and wished that he had lunched.
They ambled round for quite a while,
till just off Marco Square,
they espied a trattoria
with a toothsome bill of fare.
‘Gadzooks!’, said Nicodemus
(or words to that effect)
‘This menu suits my belly,
and my camel’s intellect.’
‘My name is Nicodemus,
and I’ve travelled many days.
I’m a starving bastard,
so I’ll brook no delay.’
‘I’ll have the potted gannet,
and for Kev, the parboiled hay.
Oh, and bring us brimming beakers
of your finest Chardonnay.’
‘We’re a humble trattoria, Sir,
(though our menu may redeem us)
but we never serve old bastards
with a name like Nicodemus.’
‘Kevin’s bad enough, you see,
but fuck me! — Nicodemus?
Now shift yer butts, both of ye,
or I ain’t Jumpin’ Jesus.