Poor Thing

There was a barber and his wife And he was beautiful A proper artist with a knife But they transported him for life And he was beautiful He had this wife, you see Pretty little thing Silly little new adder transfer the moon on a string This judge, you see, wanted a light mad, every day sent her a flower.

But did she come down from her tower? Set out there and so by the hour, Oh, for me, Our father was once yet to come, Poothing, contrived, he bet for blood, She must, when she goes, they're pulling, Poothing, they're having these poor rolling masks.

There's no one she know, her poor, terrible thing She wanders, tormenting, don't bring something The judge has repented, she thinks, or think A wearer's judge, turpin, she asks He was there all right, Elena's open to it There's a no match for such craft, you see And everyone for it's so drawn They figured she had to be daft, you see

So all of them stood there and laughed, you see Oh