Tim Bucket Nose.

This is a story, concerning those

Forever with a finger up their nose.

Now Tim was small and Tim was thin,

In fact there wasn’t very much of him.

His face was pale, his ears were big,

His hair looked like a nylon wig.

His clothes were strange, His eyes were wild,

A most peculiar kind of child.

For these things, Tim was not to blame,

And his mother loved him, just the same.

But there was one thing that he did

That made his mother flip his her lid.

Tim, you see, was one of those

Who constantly dug in his nose.

Always interested in what he’d find,

He sometimes wiped ‘them’ right behind

The curtains or the beneath the chair,

Leaving her mother to find ‘them’ there.

And clean ‘them’ up. She grumbled constantly,

And who can blame her, honestly?

Tim’s mother told him, every day,

“Tim you can’t behave this way.

If you carry on the way you’re going,

Your nose is going to keep on growing,

Until it’s a foot in length, or two

And almost quite as big as you.

People will look at you and stare

And say ‘Look at that boy over there!

I bet you that boy picks his nose,

Why it looks just like our garden hose.

His nostrils are bucket-like, I say,

I bet he smells things from miles away.

I would not want him for my friend,

His nose would drive me round the bend.

You’d see him coming hours before he came.

He only has himself to blame,

If he hadn’t picked his nose

He’d be quite normal I suppose.’”

But Tim behaved as if he hadn’t heard,

A single, solitary word.

His nose grew longer, day by day

And wider too, his friends would say.

“Look at him, ‘Tim Bucket Nose’,

He needs a cart, wherever he goes,

To wheel his giant nose about.

Oi! bucket nose!” They all would shout.

Tim grew sad and most morose,

“I wish I’d never picked my nose.

I won’t again, you can be sure.

I think my friends have found the cure!”

Well months went by and poor Tim’s nose

Looked much less like a garden hose

And much more like a normal conk

And not one that you’d like to honk.

His mother kissed the boy and said,

“Now, no more fingers in your head.

Picking your nose is impolite,”

And Tim, much chastened, answered, “Right!

I never more will pick my nose,

I don’t want to be one of those

With nose so big it starts a riot

I just want my life nice and quiet”

His nose is normal, but there are those,

Who still call him Tim Bucket Nose

And this reminds him every day

To keep his fingers right away.

Hands are really not for noses

And this is where our story closes.