A doctor was called, overhauled him, and said
"His heart is still wobbling, I don't think he's dead
I'll pull him through yet, if I don't make a mull
Look sharp there and pick up the bits of his skull!"

An eager crowd ferreted carefully round
And seventeen pieces of cranium found
"Complete" said the doctor, "now one thing remains,
Has anyone seen anything of his brains?"

No, though they'd inspected each inch of the place
Of brains not a searcher had spotted a trace
And a bricklayer said, "'ere I'll tell yer wot's wot
Some dawg must 'ave bin 'ere an' sloped with the lot."

The doctor looked worried, "That¹s awkward," he cried
"I can¹t build his head up with nothing inside,
And if we keep waiting, he'll slide 'Down the Vale'
What's that stuff you've got standing there in a pail?"

'Twas plaster of Paris. Two handfuls he spread
In the yawning gap left in the poor victim's head
Then pressed in the splinters, which fitted exact
And there lay Theophilus, headpiece intact.

  In the ward, where they carried him, senseless and numb
For weeks he lay motionless, pallid and dumb
Till, at length, dull torpidity lifted the siege
And Theophilus uttered distinctly, "Ou suis-je?"

A nurse hurried up to the side of the bed
And cheerfully asked him, "Sir, what's that you said?"
But he only looked puzzled and roughly said, "Bah,
Mais qu'est-ce que vous dites, je ne vous comprends pas?"

'Twas the Plaster of Paris; all efforts were vain
From that day he never spoke English again
Nor knew what his family were speaking about
No matter how loud they might bellow and shout.

The moral of this is quite easy to see
It shows us how careful a doctor must be
Of course, there's no question - that medical gent
Should have mended his patient with Portland Cement.

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