Was simply stuffed with silver spoon
And no one noticed that her nose
Immersed in lace and ribbon bows
Tilted at forty-five degrees
A baby beacon in the breeze
When in her pram she'd stare ahead
Cutting other babies dead
She'd never join their childish prattle
Nor chew some other infant's rattle
So month by month and year by year
Her step grew firm, her eyes grew clear
And, though their team-work wasn't good
She stared as proudly as she could
Nose at an angle set to sneeze
Tilted at forty-five degrees
Neighbours began to say aloud
'Patricia Parkinson's that proud.'
And hinted with a touch of gall
That pride was bound to have a fall.
And someboby was heard to tell
How Patsy's head was bound to swell.
And so it did, by slow degrees
'And has the child been stung by bees?
Or has she got an aching tooth?
Oh tell us please, the dreadful truth,'
Her mother to the doctor cried
'This bloated look we can't abide.'
  'Madam,' the worthy doctor said,
'A bad attack of swollen head,
Brought on by being too stuck up
Incurable,' said Dr Tupp.
'A simple case to diagnose
One glance, directed at the nose
Tilted at forty-five degrees
Is proof enough - two guineas, please.'
A sadder case I never knew
For more and more the swelling grew
Until Patricia's haughty mien
Resembled now a soup tureen
A day, a week, and very soon
Her head was like a large balloon
Till captured by a vagrant breeze
She sailed aloft beyond the trees
A cry! a shriek! and she was gone
Oh, poor Patricia Parkinson
So should you find the wretched girl
Caught up upon your aerial
We beg that you will send her back
To London, care of 'Uncle Mac'
That finishes the S.O.S.
I hope you liked the story?

( Chorus of Aunts and Uncles... 'Yes!'
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