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The Farfeloo lives in a rickety shack
With a roof that lets in all the rain,
So he washes his clothes while they’re still on his back,
And the neighbours believe he’s insane,

For he dries them by leaping to twice his own height
Till he’s puffing and panting and pink,
But sometimes his trousers seem awfully tight,
And he wonders if rain makes them shrink.

He eats very little, and drinks his own spittle,
Eked out by a diet of worms,
Preferring them young, for they tickle his tongue
As each annelid wriggles and squirms.

He keeps an umbrella to hand in the cellar
In case it should rain underground,
For there is his treasure, a pearl beyond measure,
Which has to be kept safe and sound.

He takes it down nightly, and locks it up tightly,
Then padlocks the door with a chain.
If burglars came calling, it would be appalling
To lose his detachable brain.