William Cecil Albert Schmeed
Was like an overgrown weed
With legs so lanky and so thin
In drainpipe trousers drawn in,
That it was difficult to know,
Which was head and which was toe
He dressed himself in Rocker mood
With leather jacket, fur-lined hood
And, brass-knobbed-belted at the waist,
He felt that he was in good taste
With all the other lanky louts,
Engaged in lawless, raucous, bouts
Another style then conquered Will -
Though much the same at heart, he still
Felt the crowd's demanding prod
And next turned up - a proper Mod -
In handbag, eyeshade, high-heeled shoes,
Appeared he on the T.V. news.
Before hard work did poor Schmeed quail,
And all things else that mark the male
No rules for him, no regulations,
No harshness, no castigations.
So down he let his brunette locks
Until they almost touched his socks,
He strolls among the hairy throng
A veritable new "King Kong",
His hair in curlers now enmeshed,
Dyed, shampoo'd, renewed, refreshed,
In his pink boudoir at night,
He rests - some Duchess' Cruft's delight!
Then one day - reader do not quake,
In time poor Schmeed did not awake,
Unbreakfasted, unwashed, poor fool,
At breakneck pace he rushed to school
And at Assembly was so gazed on,
He sought and sought and sought a reason -
Then realised without a doubt -
He hadn't taken HIS CURLERS OUT!!
(Now, if one asks - "Where's Schmeed today?"
They answer - "The school across the way.")