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a song involving a tongue twister.
john:
person1: i bet you can’t say this.
i am not a pheasant plucker, i’m a pheasant plucker’s son.
i am only plucking pheasants ’till the pheasant plucker comes.

person2:
i am not a pheasant plucker, i’m a pheasant f-cker’s son.
i am only f-cking pheasants ’till the peasant f-cker comes.
pleasant f-cker; a corruption first overheard at a haddasah lunch meeting.
“so, evelyn, i hear you’re seeing mortie freedman. he’s a pheasant plucker?”

“yes, joyce, and a svell dancer, too.”
somebody who plucks the feathers off pheasants, of course.
me husband is a keeper, he’s a very busy man,
i try to understand him and i help him all i can,
but sometimes of an evening i feel a trifle dim,
all alone and plucking pheasants when i’d rather pluck with him.

i’m not the pheasant plucker,
i’m the pheasant plucker’s mate
and i’m only plucking pheasants
cause the pheasant plucker’s late.

i’m not good at plucking pheasants, pheasant plucking i get stuck,
though some peasants find it pleasant i’d much rather pluck a duck,
oh, but plucking geese is gorgeous, i can pluck a goose with ease
but plucking pheasants is sheer torture, for they haven’t any grease.

i’m not the pheasant plucker,
he has gone out on the tiles,
he only plucked one pheasant
and i’m sitting here with piles.

you have to pluck them fresh, if they’re fresh it’s not unpleasant,
i knew a man in dunstable, could pluck a frozen pheasant.
they say the village constable has pheasant plucking sessions
with the vicar of a sunday ‘tween the first and second lessons.

i’m not the pheasant plucker,
i’m the pheasant plucker’s son,
and i’m only plucking pheasants
till the pheasant pluckers come.

my good friend g-dfrey’s most adept, he’s really got the knack,
he likes to have a pheasant plucked before he hits the sack.
i try and lend a helping hand, i gather up the feathers,
it’s really all this pheasant plucking keeps us here together.

i’m not the pheasant plucker,
i’m the pheasant plucker’s friend,
and i’m only plucking pheasants
as a means unto an end.

me husband’s in the woods all day, a-banging with his gun,
if he could hear me heartfelt cries, then surely he would run,
for i’ve fluff in all me crannies and there’s feathers up me nose,
and i’m itchin’ in the kitchen’ from me head down to me toes.

i’m not the pheasant plucker,
i’m the pheasant plucker’s wife,
and when we pluck together
it’s a pheasant plucking life!