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