There is a man called Lionel Groom,
Who\'s view of life is Doom amongst Gloom.
No joy it\'s seems his Spirit has gave,
A face some say like a \'Well Kept Grave\'.
He\'s a glass \'Half Full\' , a misery-guts,
Curdle the milk with his doleful looks.
His choice of dress is Victorian Wear,
Completely black with a Mourners flair.
And if by chance you pass his home,
But heaven forbid your not alone,
You\'ll find it stood, Charles Addams style:
A Blackened, Decrepit, Ancient pile.
And his voice bares down like a Far-Off sound,
Of distant Thunder closer bound,
To stop the blood within its flow,
A Temperature that reads of 6 - below.
His Vehicle of choice for cruising about town,
Is the bleakest car that will astound:
A Clapped-Out Hearse, a Vintage Piece;
The final ride when labours cease.
And is he Married Old Master Groom,
A purity of light to fill the room,
To place a hand on Fevered brow,
Burn Scented Candles should taste allow?
The answer it seems is a definite NO;
For in a Heart of frost no Flowers will grow.
So- There we have, Old Lionel\'s charms,
Nosferatu\'s brother in arms.
But does he have a job you cry,
To Wile-Away the hours by,
To sweat and Toil for his \'Daily Bread\',
The Meat of life when all is said.
Well - I\'ll leave you with this merry thought -
He\'s a \'Children\'s Entertainer\' at a Beach Resort.