The ballad of Willy Milky

I’ll sing you a song in a voice so silky

of a strange young fellow named Willy Milky

with huge flapping ears beneath his trilby

and you never really know if he won’t, or will be

if his glass is very full, or just half empty

is he over 65 or under twenty?

are elasticated slacks still cool and trendy?

does he hobble up the stairs or is he supple and bendy?

was his double chin smooth, or rough and prickly?

skin tanned like a berry or white and sickly?

does he say what he means or is he being tricky

is the food in his beard slimy or sticky?

does he like his cheese mild or stinky?

when he shouts, hoots and chatters, does he sound like a monkey?

would you trust him with your life, or even your door key?

if you sicked up your lunch, would he hand you his hankie?

is he shrivelled like a troll, or tall and lanky?

thin as a rake, or round and bulky?

cheerfully chattering, or silent and sulky

are his favourite chips thin, or thick and chunky?

does he dance like a chicken or something less funky?

and that is the ballad of young Willy Milky