Mr Buff Orpington-Brown

I will explain a few things about ‘Buff’,
He is known to many in town.
Trebollocks would be blander without him,
Mr Scrimpton Buff-Orpington-Brown.
His eyebrows sweep rubbish from the streets,
He’s erratic and changes directions.
He is a master woodworker, but strangely,
No-one wants to see his erections.
The smell of his clothing is legendary,
Like cats pee mingled with cloves.
He likes to break wind in the library –
And send out the public in droves.
Everything is labelled with Dymo,
Even the Dymo labeller itself.
It’s kept in a box marked with Dymo,
On a clearly marked ricketty shelf.
He knows when the freezer was defrosted,
By a Dymo label, he’s told.
But he doesn’t know the fridge-life of cheddar,
As the date is obscured by grey mould.
The man has pamphlets on everything –
From scrofula to chronic amnesia.
And he’s been up to Slimbridge ten more times
Than a Canada Goose with a Visa.
Proper poetry must always rhyme,
Or he’s totally unblattidly appalled.
Pam Ayres rules, Plath is pants,
and Spike Milligan had no talent at all.
To build his collection of objects,
He fishes strange things from a skip.
Then keeps them ten years for good measure,
And takes them off down to the tip.
Famous he is, and a legend in town –
He’s unbeaten in oddness by far.
And he’ll offer you a lift, when it’s raining,
If he remembers where he parked the car….

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