There once was a man who just couldn't cry.
He hadn't cried for years and for years.
Napalmed babies and the movie "Love Story,"
for instance, could not produce tears.
As a child he had cried, as all children will,
but at some point his tear ducts ran dry.
He grew to be a man. The feces hit the fan.
Things got bad, but he couldn't cry.
His dog was run over. His wife up and left him.
After that, he got sacked from his job,
lost his arm in the war, was laughed at by a whore,
ah, but still not a sniffle or sob.
Well, his novel was refused and his movie was panned,
and his big Broadway show was a flop.
He got sent off to jail. You guessed it: no bail,
oh, but still not a dribble or drop.
In jail he was beaten, bullied and buggered,
and made to make license plates.
Water and bread was all he was fed,
and not once did a tear stain his face.
Doctors were called in, scientists too,
theologians were last and practically least.
They all agreed sure enough.
This was sure no cream puff,
but in fact an insensitive beast.
He was removed from jail
and placed in a place
for the insensitive and the insane.
He played lots of chess
and he made lots of friends
and he wept every time it would rain.
Well once it rained forty days,
and it rained forty nights,
and he cried and he cried
and he cried and he cried.
On the forty-first day, he passed away.
He just dehydrated and died.
Well, he went up to heaven, located his dog,
not only that, but he rejoined his arm.
Down below, all the critics, they loot it all back.
Cancer robbed the whore of her charm.
His ex-wife died of stretch marks. His ex-employer went broke.
The theologians were finally found out.
Right down to the ground, the prison burned down.
The earth suffered perpetual drought.