That Tom was poor was sure a pity,
 Such guts for learning had the lad;
He took to Greek like babe to titty,
 And he was mathematic mad.
I loved to prime him up with knowledge, A brighter lad I never knew; I dreamed that he would go to college And there be honoured too.
But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you To keep the kettle on the boil; No longer can I clothe and feed you, Buy study books and midnight oil.
I carry on as best I'm able, A humble tailor, as you know; And you must squat cross-legged a table And learn to snip and sew.
" And that is what poor Tom is doing.
He bravely makes the best of it; But as he "fits" you he is knowing That he himself is a misfit; And thinks as he fulfils his calling, With patient heart yet deep distaste, Like clippings from his shears down-falling, --He, too, is Waste.

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