The Gruesome Ballad of Mr. Squincher
“Ki-yi!” said Mr. Squincher,
As in contemplative pose,
He stood before the looking-glass
And burnished up his nose,
And brushed the dandruff from a span-
Spick-splinter suit of clothes,—
“Why, bless you, Mr. Squincher,
You’re as handsome as a rose!”
“There are some,” continued Squincher,
As he raised upon his toes
To catch his full reflection,
And the fascinating bows
That graced his legs,—“I reckon
There are some folks never knows
How beautiful is human legs
In pantaloons like those!”
“But ah!” sighed Mr. Squincher,
As a ghastly phantom ‘rose
And leered above his shoulder
Like the deadliest of foes,—
With fleshless arms and fingers,
And a skull, with glistening rows
Of teeth that crunched and gritted,—
“It’s my tailor, I suppose!”
They found him in the morning—
So the mystic legend goes—
With the placid face still smiling
In its statuesque repose;—
With a lily in his left hand,
And in his right a rose,
With their fragrance curling upward
Through a nimbus ’round his nose.