There was a crooked man
Who walked a crooked mile,
While the crooked hands ran backwards
Around the crooked dial.
He found his crooked journey
Led him through a crooked town,
Where all his crooked neighbours
Were running up and down,
And conducting crooked business
In crooked shops and stalls,
While their shadows capered crookedly
Upon the crooked walls,
So he followed their example
And, as he passed along,
Sold his birthright for a fortune:
He had got it for a song.
He thought he had a bargain,
And was overheard to say,
‘That sometime every crooked dog
Must have his day.”
But even as he said it,
And drew a crooked breath,
He reached his crooked mile’s end
And was straightened out by death.