Girard the Guard


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.

The End

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