THE ODD MAN.
Jones is a man who is too topsy-turvy;
Nothing is quite as it should be with Jones,
Angular just where he ought to be curvy,
Padded with flesh where he ought to have bones.
Jones is a freak who attends to the labours,
Small and domestic, that make up the home:
Pays all the calls and leaves cards on the neighbours,
Leaving his wife to be lazy at home.
Does up her dresses without saying, "Blow it";
Pays and forgets to say "Bother" or "Biff";
Asks her to scatter the money and go it,
Beams at her bills when the totals are stiff.
As for his daughters, he gives them their chances,
Rushes them round to reception and fête;
Takes them himself to their concerts and dances;
Always looks pleased when they want to stay late.
Then he has meals which would make you grow thinner,
Often absorbing with infinite glee
Sponge-cakes at breakfast and crumpets at dinner,
Whitstable oysters at five o'clock tea.
Next he loves laughter: that is, to be laughed at—
Every way's right for the man to be rubbed;
Grins when he's sneered at and jeered at and chaffed at;
Wriggles with pleasure whenever he's snubbed.
Fiction, in short, in a million disguises
Never created a crankier clod,
More unaccountably made of surprises,
More topsy-turvily fashioned and odd.