Sir Puffy Mcduffy, a swell chap he was

Never spoiling his suit in the mud

He was punctual, jolly and all-around-good

That is until he fell into the Indian "hood"

At first the Indians, alarmed they were

But found how agreeable he was, as he made them a gift of Murr

Alas-they liked him until

He made them tea brewed at an English mill

They liked their coffee you see,

They didn't want no stinking tea.

But he assured them it would taste just the same

They found that the taste left their tongues quite lame

Many grew weak, many fell ill

And they blamed it all on that stupid mill

The Indians, they wanted revenge

The severe grief they felt left the tribe unhinged

They wrote a formal complaint to the mill

But the canoes they sent crashed into the hill

So they turned on poor duff instead

Chucked him to see; clomping him in the head

Alas-poor Duffy!

If only he'd been just a little less puffy!

If only he'd stuck with his diet just a little bit longer!

If only his pecks had been just a little bit stronger!

He might have been able to swim back to shore

But because of the weight of his belly, his back was quite sore

The Indian tribe watched from afar

They'd only done it because they believed he had SARS

As Mcduff sank beneath the waves

He shouted to those murderous naves

"Farewell to thee, I die!"

"Let me help you!" a brave cried

And then the godless hostile ashore did put an arrow through Duff's back so sore

And then went up the resounding cry," Smoke 'em THIS peace pipe!"

"Alas," the sad shark sighed, "'Twas only a small bite."