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Category: Funny Whimsical Poems
       Classic humorous and funny poems using whimsy. Humourosly quaint and fanciful, especially in an amusing way.

  TIM TURPIN  

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
    And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Nature, when his head was made,
    Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
    Poor Tim was forced to do,--
Look out for pupils, for he had
    A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight
    Of objects dim and small;
But Tim had specks within his eyes,
    And could not see at all.

Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,
    And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
    A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down
    Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, although she led
    The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had lived a month
    In honey with his wife,
A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,
    Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were opened thus,
    He wished them dark again;
For when he looked upon his wife,
    He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,
    He couldn't bear to eat;
For she was anything but like
    A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man:
    For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for everything,--
    But that was with a stick.

So, with a cudgel in his hand,--
    It was not light or slim,--
He knocked at his wife's head until
    It opened unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
    He took his slaughtered spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
    The ashes of her house.

But, like a wicked murderer,
    He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
    His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetched a doctor in:
    Said he, "This wound I dread
Can hardly be sewed up,--his life
    Is hanging on a thread."

But when another week was gone,
    He gave him stronger hope,--
Instead of hanging on a thread,
    Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work,
    In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
    Would soon be sifted out!

But when the parish dustman came,
    His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
    Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,
    Were sworn that very day;
But though they all were jurors, yet
    No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen,
    "You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself, at once,
    The author of her death.

"And O, when I reflect upon
    The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
    Inscribed with double guilt!"

Then turning round his head again
    He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
    The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment-cap,
    And put it on his head,
And sentenced Tim by law to hang
    Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung
    (Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham drop, and none can say
    It was a drop too much.

                                     Thomas Hood.


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