The Incompetence of the Professor

They knew the house was in danger; they had scene more than one spark
It was time to call the electrician and tell him the wires had begun to arc

He picked up the phone—but there was a laugh at the door:
it was the professor, inquiring as to what he was wanted for.

“Well,” explained the man embarrassedly, “not for anything particularly—
I mean, I was going to call—uh, when you—um, I know this seems silly—”

The professor quietly comforted him with a crumbly bit of sharp cheese,
so they showed him the place where the wires had been gnawed by fleas.

When he saw the problem, he calmly asked for a pickle and lumber.
“So you’re a carpenter?” they asked, confused. “No, I’m a plumber.”

They brought him a pickle, extremely small and sour
The professor nibbled at it and savored it for an hour

The brought him lumber so he repaired the bed.
“Well, that did need to be done...” the man said.

They gave him pliers, so he plied at the wall till the man said, “Bleep!”
which the professor interpreted as meaning he should go right to sleep.

They doused him with buckets and sprayed him with hoses;
it would have been more worthwhile to do that to the roses,

but they kept it up till the house burst out in flame.
“Wake up—this is all your fault; you’re to blame!”

The professor’s face just kept on smiling, so they left for town
and he snoozed in the fixed bed while the house burned down.

It rained for three weeks without a pause but he did not so much as start.
Amid the ruins the blackened bed molded, mossed, rotted and fell apart.

At last the sun came out and his granddaughter woke him to gave him some tea;
and the confused old professor, though wet through, was as happy as he could be.