There are an awful lot of, quite frankly, horrendous nursery rhymes out there.
Jack fell down and broke his crown. I don't understand why anyone would build a well at the top of a hill to start with but there you go. And then to top it all off, Jill suffers the same fate. Humpty was smashed to pieces and irreparable. Lovely, scrambled eggs; especially after all the King's horses and men had stomped in it. Down will come baby, cradle and all. Nice, why the hell were they rocking their baby in a tree in the first place? We all dip our heads in the deep, blue sea. Yep, they're drowning. Think Titanic but without the sapphire necklace. As if those Three blind mice didn't have enough to contend with by being visually impaired, the farmer's wife then disabled them further. And I'd hate to be that weasel standing in the queue in the shop when people start asking for half a pound of tuppenny rice.
Then there are the nursery rhymes where quite frankly the children do not set a good example to my son.
I would rather my child use cutlery to eat his Christmas pie than follow the example of Little Jack Horner. Georgie Porgie was a cowardly flirt and bully who knew when to scarper. Little Johnny Flynn needs a good slap as well as reporting to the RSPCA for trying to drown cats. And I do not want The Boy growing up with arachnaphobia like his parents, so Little Miss Muffet needs to get a grip pretty damn quickly if she wants to reside in this house.
If those blooming blackbirds do not find somewhere else, other than outside my bedroom, to welcome in the new day with their sensationally loud chorus at 4am every morning, then I will be baking up my own dainty dish to set before the king!