In the streets of Calcutta,
the girls often mutter
of the boy with the fairytale hair
His locks flow so freely
that the girls they all really
can do little but dream if they dare
And when he walks past 'em
their hearts beat so fast and
their breath it grows short in their chests
They toy with their tresses
and straighten their dresses
in hopes that he will be impressed
But the boy has no eyes for
the girls he'd be prize for
for their love he just feels no desire
The boy is a diddy
he is one daft wee kiddy
and his mind's set on something much higher
So the boy walks on by
with his eyes to the sky
missing girls who would chatter and flirt
He looks way up high
dreaming he'll some day fly
thinking how he will get that result
For the lad he has gathered
balsa wood thickly slathered
with lighter than air b&q helium paint
And each day he slaps more on
does our intrepid moron
and the fumes make his voice high and faint
And today he will try out
after offering devout
prayers to the one holy and high
his flying machine
powered solely by steam
if the paint can just be got to dry
But oh dear, our poor hero!
His chances are zero!
For he has forgotten one thing:
Our hero's physics are bitty
confused about gravity
of bad ideas, this lad, he is king
So before he departs
as his test flight he starts
which will end with a scream and a splat
Pity those poor wee girls
who fancied his curls
and didn't realise he was such a prat.
