The Unfortunate Professor

(The shrewd observer might note that this post has previously appeared on PhaWRONGula. What can I say? Us rats get overwhelmed with holiday preparations, too. Also, I have to do the dishes.)

There once was a teacher, a scatty old creature,
Whose spectacles lived on his head.
From morning to night, he looked quite a fright,
As if he'd just risen from bed.

His trousers were tatty; his notebooks were ratty;
His pens were all certain to leak.
He bathed every Sunday, but most times, by Monday,
He smelt like the end of the week.

I've heard people say that back in his day
He kept himself tidy and neat:
Impeccably dressed, in shirts starched and pressed,
With shiny black shoes on his feet.

What made him this way, I can't rightly say,
Except it had something to do
With torture so dreadful it left him a headful
Of claptrap and bally-go-hoo.

Just what was so ghoulish? A question so foolish
It frightened him out of his wits?
A scatterbrained theory? A dunderhead query
That blew his composure to bits?
Whatever went wrong in classes bygone,
Whatever disaster, the torture goes on:
His lectures are really the pits.