Classic Poem

Come, list to my stave,
Ye who roam o'er the land or the wave,
Or in grots subterranean,
Or up the blue Mediterranean,
Near Etna's big crater,
Or across the equator,
Where, within St. Helena, there lieth an emperor's grave;
If, when, you have got to the Cape of Good Hope,
You begin to experience a sad want of soap,
Bless your lot
On the spot,
If you chance to lay eye on
A flask of Eukeirogeneion;
For then you may safely rely on
A smooth and most comforting shave!

In this liquid there lies no deception;
For even old Neptune,
Whose bushy chin frightens
The green squad of Tritons—
And who turns up the deep
With the huge flowing sweep
Of his lengthy and ponderous beard,—
Should he rub but his throttle
With the foam of this bottle,
He'd find,
To his mind,
In a twinkling the mop would have all disappear'd.
King Nebuchadnezzar,
Who was turn'd for his sins to a grazier,
(For they stopp'd his allowance of praties,
And made him eat grass on the banks of Euphrates),
Whose statue Sir Thomas
Took from us;
Along with the image of Cæsar:
(But Frank Cresswell will tell the whole story to Fraser:)
Though they left him a capital razor,
Still went for seven years with his hair like a lion,
For want of Eukeirogeneion.