Hark to me, a lowly bard
This, my tale, quite avant-garde
Of a rather tragic guard
And his first name was Girard.
Big, he was, a tub of lard
And his ugly face was scarred,
For with many men he'd sparred -
Some of whom had marked his card.
Girard's lonely life was hard.
Lack of female company jarred
His existence, which was marred.
How he longed for fond regard.
One day, sitting in his yard
Pondering his fate, ill-starred,
This poor man, oh, sad Girard
Never had one birthday card.
Next day in the railway yard,
Officers from Scotland Yard
Found his body, burned and charred
With these words, scrawled on a card:
''Why such constant disregard
For a plain but kindly guard?
From true love I've been disbarred.
You win, I quit. Signed, Girard.