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They say he was a tall gent and curiously cross eyed
He'd none of Dr. Jekyll, but all of Mr. Hyde
His bedside manner was lax in the extreme
His preference was poison and his name was Dr. Cream

By day he lodged in Lambeth and on Sunday led the hymns
By night he savoured Stamford Street, its Music Hall and inns
He stalked the streets of London with his powders and his pills
A cure all for the working girls, an end to all their ills

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In the milky white solution he dipped his poison pen
And turned his hand to blackmailing the sons of gentlemen
But Scotland Yard was close behind and soon the trap was sprung
Followed by another for Dr. Cream was hung

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