Here you will find the Long Poem A Discontented Sugar Broker of poet William Schwenck Gilbert
A gentleman of City fame Now claims your kind attention; East India broking was his game, His name I shall not mention: No one of finely-pointed sense Would violate a confidence, And shall I go And do it? No! His name I shall not mention. He had a trusty wife and true, And very cosy quarters, A manager, a boy or two, Six clerks, and seven porters. A broker must be doing well (As any lunatic can tell) Who can employ An active boy, Six clerks, and seven porters. His knocker advertised no dun, No losses made him sulky, He had one sorrow - only one - He was extremely bulky. A man must be, I beg to state, Exceptionally fortunate Who owns his chief And only grief Is - being very bulky. "This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear; I'm nineteen stone or twenty! Henceforward I'll go in for air And exercise in plenty." Most people think that, should it come, They can reduce a bulging tum To measures fair By taking air And exercise in plenty. In every weather, every day, Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty, He took to dancing all the way From Brompton to the City. You do not often get the chance Of seeing sugar brokers dance From their abode In Fulham Road Through Brompton to the City. He braved the gay and guileless laugh Of children with their nusses, The loud uneducated chaff Of clerks on omnibuses. Against all minor things that rack A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back The noisy chaff And ill-bred laugh Of clerks on omnibuses. His friends, who heard his money chink, And saw the house he rented, And knew his wife, could never think What made him discontented. It never entered their pure minds That fads are of eccentric kinds, Nor would they own That fat alone Could make one discontented. "Your riches know no kind of pause, Your trade is fast advancing; You dance - but not for joy, because You weep as you are dancing. To dance implies that man is glad, To weep implies that man is sad; But here are you Who do the two - You weep as you are dancing!" His mania soon got noised about And into all the papers; His size increased beyond a doubt For all his reckless capers: It may seem singular to you, But all his friends admit it true - The more he found His figure round, The more he cut his capers. His bulk increased - no matter that - He tried the more to toss it - He never spoke of it as "fat," But "adipose deposit." Upon my word, it seems to me Unpardonable vanity (And worse than that) To call your fat An "adipose deposit." At length his brawny knees gave way, And on the carpet sinking, Upon his shapeless back he lay And kicked away like winking. Instead of seeing in his state The finger of unswerving Fate, He laboured still To work his will, And kicked away like winking. His friends, disgusted with him now, Away in silence wended - I hardly like to tell you how This dreadful story ended. The shocking sequel to impart, I must employ the limner's art - If you would know, This sketch will show How his exertions ended. MORAL. I hate to preach - I hate to prate - - I'm no fanatic croaker, But learn contentment from the fate Of this East India broker. He'd everything a man of taste Could ever want, except a waist; And discontent His size anent, And bootless perseverance blind, Completely wrecked the peace of mind Of this East India broker.