A Corpulent Man Is My Bachelor Chum, With A Neck Apoplectic And Thick - An Abdomen On Him As Big As A Drum, And A Fist Big Enough For The Stick; With A Walk That For Grace Is Clear Out Of The Case, And A Wobble Uncertain - As Though His Little Bow-Legs Had Forgotten The Pace That In Youth Used To Favor Him So. He Is Forty, At Least; And The Top Of His Head Is A Bald And A Glittering Thing; And His Nose And His Two Chubby Cheeks Are As Red As Three Rival Roses In Spring; His Mouth Is A Grin With The Corners Tucked In, And His Laugh Is So Breezy And Bright That It Ripples His Features And Dimples His Chin With A Billowy Look Of Delight. He Is Fond Of Declaring He "Don't Care A Straw" - That "The Ills Of A Bachelor'S Life Are Blisses, Compared With A Mother-In-Law And A Boarding-School Miss For A Wife!" So He Smokes And He Drinks, And He Jokes And He Winks, And He Dines And He Wines, All Alone, With A Thumb Ever Ready To Snap As He Thinks Of The Comforts He Never Has Known. But Up In His Den - (Ah, My Bachelor Chum!) - I Have Sat With Him There In The Gloom, When The Laugh Of His Lips Died Away To Become But A Phantom Of Mirth In The Room. And To Look On Him There You Would Love Him, For All His Ridiculous Ways, And Be Dumb As The Little Girl-Face That Smiles Down From The Wall On The Tears Of My Bachelor Chum.