The Fate of Erasmus Malony

The scariest man I've ever seen
Lives at the end of our street
His face is a yellowy sort of green
and there's fungus attached to his feet

He's quietly famous and goes by the name
of Sir Ensor Erasmus Malony
It is widely known that he lives all alone
and his manners are wholly unholy

An odius smell and a sulphurus cloud
are emitted whenever he speaks
And the twittering sounds are the sparrows
which nest in the hair on his cheeks

Little mushrooms they grow on his pillow
and he has them for breakfast with ketchup
A truly repellent concoction
like something a Tomcat might wretch-up

He once was a concert Trombonist
and he hung with orchestral elite
Struck down with a billion coldsores
which rendered his lips obsolete

His girlfriend packed up his belongings
and asked him to leave, she insisted
She kept his Trombone as a trophy
and watched him grow bitter and twisted

At first it was just odd behaviour
late nights and forgetting to wash
But it escalated quickly, he was soon
with full beard and moustache

Now he rambles through woods in the daytime
Getting angry and really quite muddy
With his head hanging low in great sadness
and his mind in the darkest brown study

And the sound of his stick on the pavement at night
leaves both kids and their parents quite rigid with fright

His hair looks like tagliatelle
but smells like a hospital mop
He washes it every Thursday
in a compound of vegetable slop

He chats to the lice who inhabit
his thick curly nasal fuzz
Sometimes he pauses to listen
to the sound of his eardrum buzz

It's the only music he hears now
apart from his Sausage Machine
He gets so upset when he plays it
and ponders on what might have been

There's no going back for Erasmus
he's wandered too far from the path
He cannot be solved by kind neighbours
or saved by a shave and a bath

And he can't get a job
because all that he was,
was the master of his great Trombone
So he'll live out his days semi-feral
quite smelly and very alone.