The Contest

To shave the face
To pull the tooth
Require the grace
And not the brute

For if you slip
You nick the skin
You clip the chin
You rip the lip a bit
And that's the truth

To shave the face
Or even a part
Without it smart
Require the heart

It take the art
I show you a chart
I study, starting in my youth

To cut the hair
To trim the beard
To make the bristle clean like a whistle
This is from early infancy
The talent give to me by God

It take the skill
It take the brains
It take the will
To take the pains
It take the pace
It take the grace

The winner is Todd
Sir, I bow to a skill far defter than my own
Mr. Todd, strange, Sir
Seems your face is known to me
Him? That's a laugh
Him being me uncle's cousin
And arrived from Birmingham only yesterday

And yet already I have heard Beadle Bamford
Spoken of with great respect
Well Sir, I try my best for my neighbours
In Fleet Street? Above your pie shop, ma'am?
That's it, Sir
Then Mr. Todd, you shall surely see me there
Before the week is out
You will be welcome, Beadle Bamford
And I guarantee to give you, without a penny's charge
The closest shave you will ever know