The Porridge Tragedy
(to the tune of My Daeling Clementine)

In a camp down in the country
Dwelt some Guides on holiday.
Twenty-threee there were in number
Quite enough to take away.

In the camp there was a Girl Guide
Who was like most little girls.
She was either up to mischief
Or was kicking up a noise.

Rose she early every morning
At precisely half past four,
She'd go out and shout her war cries
Far too near the Guider's door.

Then the Guider, then the Guider,
Soon began to jump and roar.
Just because that silly Girl Guide
Wouldn't let her be and snore.

So she made the early riser
Take the porridge spoon and stir
First explaining how to do it
Lest an accident occur.

Then the Girl Guide, very anxious,
Thought the porridge she could smell.
Put her head into the dixie,
Lost her balance, in she fell.

Saw her head above the porridge
She was looking mighty red.
How she wished that she'd kept silent,
And kept to her little bed.

When the Guides went down for breakfast,
There were only twenty-two.
Though the Guider called it porridge
They all thought that it was stew.

All you Girl Guides, old and youthful,
Bear in mind this story sad.
Never spoil your Guider's slumber.
Lest your fate should be as bad.

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