Walter Stanford

  Now Mr Theophilus Reginald Brann
Was a worthy and highly respectable man.
His face was expansive, the colour of lard
There was nothing but bonhonnie in his regard.

In his youth, in the middle he'd parted his hairs
And the parting had spread with the fleeting of years
And now shone resplendent, a dazzling sight
From his ear on the left to his ear on the right.

One sultry June morning, the said T.R.B.
Strolled down to his office in Bucklesbury
And as he was walking, his features he fanned
With the elegant topper he held in his hand.

Fate willed that his patients should carry him near
A sky-scraper building in course of repair
And as he was passing, some beer-sodden Mick
Let drop on his up-bulging cranium a brick.

'Neath the shock of the impact the poor fellow's crust
Went off like a paper bag when it is 'bust'
And moaning, Theophilus sank down to rest
With his dome scattered round him North, South, East and West.

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