About the crook'd Barry

He came like Tommy’s Cooper

With a pocket in each hand,

Juggling with his boulders

While out humphing ‘cross the land.

 

It took about a day a week

No more and not much less.

He took his Barry from a hook

And strapped it to his chest.

 

Next day he shaved his crook’d nose

And washed his crook’d gums.

He combed his crook’d eyebrows

Then he rang his crook’d chums.

 

‘I am the crook’d Barry!’

He declared along the way.

‘My chin is crook’d as a sock

Not like a rail-way.’

 

Then like a Wilfred Brambel

On a tandem made for one.

He cursed a little woodbine-

In his head he sang a song.

 

‘I have a friend called ‘arry,

He’s not crook’d, not like me.

His teeth are straight as diamonds

And he shines them on the sea.’

 

‘His lips are made of custard

And they taste of apple pie.

His hair is made of rainbows

Growing bald across the sky.’