With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face,
Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits,
While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.
His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort,
His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short;
That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear,
When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."
Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch,
For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch;
And in course of time he grew up—though a loving mother's joy—