When out with Aunts I think it's quite
Impossible to be polite
Yet Hereward, a chap I knew,
Had twenty-one or twenty-two
Or may be it was twenty-three
And treated each with courtesy
He'd listen to what each one said,
And even let them pat his head
He'd wear the bedsocks they would knit
And say they were a perfect fit
At Auntie jokes he always laughed,
He'd ask them if they felt a draft
Protect them from all jolts and jerks
And read aloud from standard works
And Aunts upon the Hawkins side
Would mention Hereward with pride
They'd tell their friends
'A Hawkins to his finger-ends'
And Hereward's maternal Aunts
Would prophesy his sure advance
'No knowing what the boy may do.
A Higginbotham through and through.'
(For that, perhaps I should explain,
Was Hawkins' mother's maiden name).

And when he rose to man's estate,
His Aunts by then reduced to eight

  People acknowledged him to be
A pillar of society
He sat on boards, they made him Mayor,
His name was mentioned everywhere

And when he opened wards and wings
And laid foundation stones and things
And opportunity occurred
He'd thank them in a modest word
And say with his engaging air
How nice it was to be a Mayor
Attributing his swift advance
To having been polite to Aunts
But then, I mentioned this before,
He started out with twenty-four!

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