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.’