There once lived an old crazy professor,
who burned torches on the walls,
and kept a pistol on the dresser.
His house was quite big, its corridors dark and cold,
which in the summer were piping hot,
the winter freezing cold.
A maid in the kitchen,
on her soup he did thrive,
he had smoking jackets in his closet,
a Studebaker in his drive.
The salt shakers had no tops,
the silver did not match,
there were windows that would not close,
and doors that would not latch.
There was one other person,
he had a daughter, that he did.
She was his patch of sunshine,
and her name was Enid.
She kept the house quite cheery,
as best as she was able,
with a picture hanging on each wall,
a sunflower on every table.