How pleasant to know Mr. Mundy!
Though his speech is contorted and strange
And his mind
has a taint of Dame Grundy,
Yet he has some good points in his range.
His home is in farthest
West Britain,
With walls all bespattered with mould;
A haven for cat and for kitten —
They
count one-and-twenty, all told.
His head is too big for his torso;
He is grievously short
in the legs,
Loves mushrooms like Frodo, or more so,
But never can feed upon eggs.
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He reads, every year, Edward Gibbon
And the tale of The Lord of the Rings,
Grows fretful
at mocking and ribbin'
And is frightened of — too many things.
He scratches upon a viola
Of a shape like no other, it seems;
He cannot abide Coca-Cola;
He writes Latin verse in his
dreams.
He yearns for a choir to write songs for;
He sleeps until nine of a Sunday;
Ere
he joins the Gone-By that he longs for,
How pleasant to know Mr. Mundy!
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