These three feet men were put to the test:
His Florscheims made him cry.
Then these three men heard a volume "Ow!!!!!!"--
John's gnarly corns: pussed guy.

They've ploughed, they've poked, they've harrowed his skin,
Put drops upon the heads.
Then these three men heard a volume "Ow!!!!!!"
Those gnarly corns weren't dead.

They had him lie, on a long table, down;
Tried to drain them to make them small.
These little surgeons then scratched their heads--
The corns weren't fazed at all.

They made him stand and said, "Walk this way,"
But he looked pale and wan.
To little surgeons, he said: "Get them sheared!
I want to go and run."

Smock-attired men with scalpels so sharp
Were set to cut vig'rously,
But they got sidetracked by growth, 3-day. . .
Served each other baberously.

Smock-attired men said, "Stick in a fork,
See if they're done." Just smart-
Mouthed banter from medical men who can't
Practice the healing art.

They wheeled him around on gurney of steel,
But it didn't have a horn.
They ran into a somnolent oaf. . .
Banged poor John's gnarly corns.

Smock-attired men admit: "We cannot fix
Your feet; we've failed, in troth.
Although we'd made a solemn vow--
It was some kind of oath."

These little surgeons said, "Let's go and bowl."
John poured brandy in a glass. . .
Became a surgeon, de facto, and stole
A scalpel from the nurse lass.

Though he knows he'll be scarred by pocks
And scream loudly--they must be shorn.
So he sinks the blade in after one more shot
And routs pimple-like gnarly corns.