Classic Poem

On Sunday morning, then he comes
To church, and everybody smells
The blacking and the toilet soap
And camphor balls from Mr. Wells.

He wears his whiskers in a bunch,
And wears his glasses on his head.
I mustn't call him Old Man Wells —
No matter — that's what Father said.

And when the little blacking smells
And camphor balls and soap begin,
I dOnot have to look to know
That Mr. Wells is coming in.