| Poor Mr Malaprope never really had a hope
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| Sitting in the corner with his raps’n’ale,
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| He never knew a lot about the things he used to shout about
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| Sometimes what he said just went beyond the pale.
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| On science his theory was that, «They're all barking mad».
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| On politics he argued they’re all equally as bad.
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| Religiously he would observe high days and holidays,
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| 'Divine Intervention' couldn’t make him change his ways
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| Then came Sir Spoutalot, straight out of Camelot,
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| Tilting at the windmills all along the mile.
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| No 'paragon of virtue' this was true,
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| Putting damsels in distress was more his style.
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| Their passions he would recount in intimate detail,
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| With odes and songs and oratory to all he would unveil.
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| This self-styled ballad monger then left us all to ponder,
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| Why abstinence or reticence couldn’t make the heart grow fonder?
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| Dear Dr Pennywise not slow to realise,
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| You shouldn’t «spoil the vessel for a ha’porth of tar».
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| Sixpence the poorer like Mr Micawber,
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| His grand designs just didn’t get far.
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| Aguilar, Guy and Dancer were men he could admire,
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| But unlike them he had no pile on which he might retire.
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| In consequence he paid no heed to bills and fines and fees,
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| And he ended up down 'Queer Street' with 'Lady Poverty'. |