Mr. Blob

My heart went out to Mr Blob the moment that we met,
And the manner of his coming is a thing I can't forget.
It fell upon a Sunday in the merry month of June,
Between a rainy morning and a rainy afternoon.

He didn't use the window, and he didn't use the door;
He never took his hat off and he never touched the floor;
He didn't look as if he'd grown, like us: he just began,
And stood before us there, a simple English gentleman.

He wasn't very dandified or dainty in his dress,
But the absence of his trousers seemed to cause him no distress,
For the smile upon his features was a marvel to behold,
And underneath that buttoned vest there beat a heart of gold.

He wasn't long among us: all too little had been said
When a heavy hand descended on his inoffensive head,
And a Voice delivered judgement; 'Mr Blob is far too stout;
He's a silly little fellow, and I mean to rub him out.'

He didn't seem offended, but I think he must have heard,
For he rose up from the paper and he went without a word.
His boots and buttons only lingered on a little while,
And the last of him to vanish was the vestige of a smile.

O Mr Blob, the world would be a very pleasant place
If everyone resembled you in figure and in face.
If everybody went about with open arms like you
The stars would all be brighter and the sky a bluer blue.

My heart went out to mr Blob the moment that we met,
And the sorrow of his going is a thing that haunts me yet;
For often when the clouds are low I sit at home and sob
To think that I shall see no more the face of Mr Blob.