There was an old hermit in Cromer
Who wanted to befriend a loner
So he went on to Tinder
He opened a window
He picked me for he liked my aroma.
Cromer is too remote for a lady
Who likes to go out somewhere shady
I went to Soho
As I did not know
It’s for harlots, and folk who feel flakey.
Sin is a category error
Which fells folk like me with its terror
So I decide not to brood
Nor ruminate food
In case I go blind or turn yellow.
I think my retina has conked out
And also I’ve grown far too stout
So chop off my head
When I am in bed
That will be a full cure for my doubt
How my heart sings 