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Sir Percival Cranberry Ecclestone-Knox
Young, chivalrous, affluent, handsome and brave
Possessed of one flaw in the form of his socks
Which he wore every day and wears still in his grave.

Never washed, never changed, on his feet they remained
Like a shroud (only stinking), quite as one with the flesh
Putrid, decaying, bloodied and stain’d
No love in the life of a man of such mess.

An’ I heard it be said, “he’s a fear’d of his feet"
As a child he’d once seen them but t’was sight of such terror
Everlasting encasement, he deemed most discreet
In a ten percent mix of cotton/polyester.

Though dead now for over a hunderèd year
At times an odour in my parlour docks
And I see vague forms of man appear
The ghost of Sir Percival Ecclestone-Knox.

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