Size and Tears

When on the sandy shore I sit,
   Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
   Because I dare not shave—
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.

I answer “If that ruffian Jones
   Should recognise me here,
He’d bellow out my name in tones
   Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out).”

Ah me!  I see him on the cliff!
   Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
   He’s got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,
   I meet him out at dinner;
And when I’ve found some charming fair,
   And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!

The girls (just like them!) all agree
   To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
   About him to admire?
They cry “He is so sleek and slim,
It’s quite a treat to look at him!”

They vanish in tobacco smoke,
   Those visionary maids—
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
   Between the shoulder-blades—
“Why, Brown, my boy!  Your growing stout!”
(I told you he would find me out!)

“My growth is not your business, Sir!”
   “No more it is, my boy!
But if it’s yours, as I infer,
   Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!

“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here—
   I’d best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
   Must shortly sink the beach!”—
Insult me thus because I’m stout!
I vow I’ll go and call him out!