Just then the phone rang. It was Tiny Tim,
Tiptoeing through the snowdrops for a goose
The size of Uncle Scrooge. He had a heart
As big as individual distress
In every house and hovel. He had news
Of trials and sponging houses, and his dad
Had totted up the reckoning at last.
I thought of Mr Pickwick, who redeemed
A condominium in Venice Beach,
Where all the sunny blondes were wearing smiles
For Michaelmas. He beamed benignantly.
Remember Mr Fezziwig? he asked.
His claret was to die for, and he sent
Jacktars around the globe and back again.
He died in chains and stalks the streets at night.
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