Lord Plin, Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Reputation as a Cynical hard bitten sceptic
(Based on Lord Lundy by Hilaire Belloc)
Lord Plin, from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his father said,
"Plinny! It's time to go to Bed!"
He screamed, he shook and often wept,
Until upstairs he tearful crept.
At school it really was the same,
He never really played the game,
And when the other lads all joked,
With bitter tears our Plin was choked.
Miss Brice-Tribe in commanding tones,
Said "Plin, boy, kindly cease those groans!"
Miss Houghton, striking hard his head,
Thought this a better way instead.
But soon this unassuming fool,
Was sent on to the grammar school.
He wept, he cried most every night,
When teachers said, 'This is not right'.
And Jasper Smith in bitter tone,
Said, 'I have NEVER known,
A child to weep without just cause,
Or believe always in Santa Claus!'
Fred Freeth applied a piece of plank,
And said, 'Boy, you will thank
Me, if you cry and even weep,
Though you may think me just a creep,
But tearful boys will fail in life,
And never ever have a wife!
It happened to our Plin, just then,
As happens to so many men:
Towards the age of twenty-four,
He found a rather pretty whore;
And even though her moods were manic
He tried his best to never panic,
Until she left, no reason why,
And then did Plin begin to cry.
Around that time our stupid fool,
Taught English in a failing school,
In which profession he commanded
The Income that his rank demanded.
He never thought to be a master
Would be a very grave disaster.
But when the kids soon took to jeers,
Then Plin just ended up in tears.
He never thought that little boys
Could ever make such dreadful noise.
At last approaching 46,
He thought he'd enter politics
And spent some very stressful years,
Trying to stem his frequent tears.
As chair of this and chair of that,
He even grew a little fat.
But when he tried with every plea
To say, 'Don't disagree!'
The members ignoring his reply,
Then Plin would just begin to cry.
A hint at harmless little jobs
Would shake him with convulsive sobs.
And as for complex planning matters,
That left his world in utter tatters.
And leave him whimpering like a child.
It drove his colleagues raving wild!
At last approaching fifty eight,
He thought 'It may not be all too late.
I can of course escape to France,
That's probably my final chance.'
And in a chateau old and misty
He lived a life both calm and thrifty.
And though his food was mostly gruel,
At least he had ceased to mewl.
Alas, as time declined his powers,
There was too much with too few hours,
And although it was much relief
Anxiety increased his grief.
His oldest school friend, name of Green,
A face for decades never seen,
Apart from Photoshopped creations,
Evincing Facebook adulations,
Fell gravely ill, and rather late,
Had things done to his poor prostate.
In Derriford the deed was done
It really wasn't any fun
But after days of ne'er a mail,
Old Plin began to wail and wail.
His pessimism took a hold
It was incredible to behold,
He tossed and turned and had bad dreams
The dog was frightened by his screams,
He really thought his friend deceased
And hour by hour his fears increased.
He really believed that things were worse
And had to get a-hold of nurse
But nursey soon allayed his dread
Announcing Terry much 'undead'.
And thus, with much allayed grave fears,
He promptly just dissolved in tears.
Alas, this morbid anxious state,
May never totally ablate.
However much he is a phony,
He will remain your closest crony.
