Short Fingers, he’s the man,
the man with the tiny touch,
who's whiny much.
Big support-bringer’s
reckoned “cool” by an alarming margin
with larger fin[gers].

Boorish words he will roar in your ear.
Rub your eyes, ’cause you spy what you fear:
there’s a horrid girl crows for this trickster—
was the kiss of death for Mister Short-Stinter. . .
picked this girl, whose senselessness would abort
his run. . .lettre morte.

Story words he will roar in your ear:
telling lies. . .wins the prize without peer.
There’s a hooded world oafish yet sin’ster
bent to kiss the hem of Mister Short Fingers.
In that world, they settle things out of court,
and sheets aren’t short.

But stubby and short,
very short,
oh so short,
those fingers are short
fat and short.
Very short.