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