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Category: Funny Satire Poems
       Classic humorous and funny poems using irony, exaggeration and ridicule, to expose and criticize stupidity and vices.


A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
    And offered twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
    As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,
    That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
    "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
    It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,
    And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
    Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried--
All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed!
    "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
    He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore,
Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,
    And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff!
    So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,
    On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors; a damned, confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun:
"P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun,
    That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
    With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave."
"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.
        As for the razors you have bought,
        Upon my soul I never thought
That they would shave."
"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
    And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries:
    "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to sell."

                                                                                John Wolcot.

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