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Once upon a time there was
A count who couldn’t count.
Whenever he sold anything
Or any business did
He was taken advantage of
All because he couldn’t count.

Now being a count takes money
So counts must be able to count.
And a count who keeps losing money
Is likely to end up broke.

The count in our story loved custard.
He ate it every day.
He had it on his cornflakes
And dipped his chips in it.
He took it into his head one day
That if everyone was like him,
A way to solve his misfortunes
Lay in sweet manufacturing.
He bought a custard factory
An investment doomed to fail
He didn’t sell much custard
But stockpiled it pellmell.

Surprise surprise surprise surprise
His family displeased
And his wife exasperated
Left him…as you would.

Impoverished in his castle
Eking out his days in style
Feeding his cat and all his dogs
Custard with a smile.
And he has it on toast himself
It keeps him fighting fit
Earning him the nickname
Monty Custard Thick.

That’s all I know or care to tell
Of that custard n’er do well.

Written in Arinsal while under the influence of the mountains, the skiing and the alcohol so that Daniel Evans would have a bedtime story to read to Robyn who can count better than any of us.