The Contest

Pirelli: To shave the face

To pull the tooth

Require the grace

And not the brute

For if you slip

You nick the skin

You clip the chin

You rip the lip a bit

And that′s the truth

To shave the face

Or even a part

Without it smart

Require the heart

It take the art

I show you a chart

I study, starting in my youth

To cut the hair

To trim the beard

To make the bristle clean like a whistle

This is from early infancy

The talent give to me by God

It take the skill

It take the brains

It take the will

To take the pains

It take the pace

It take the grace

Beadle, spoken: The winner is Todd

Pirelli, spoken: Sir, I bow to a skill far defter than my own

Beadle, spoken: Mr. Todd, strange, Sir

Seems your face is known to me

Mrs. Lovett, spoken: Him? That's a laugh

Him being me uncle′s cousin

And arrived from Birmingham only yesterday

Todd, spoken: And yet already I have heard Beadle Bamford

Spoken of with great respect

Beadle, spoken: Well Sir, I try my best for my neighbours, in Fleet Street? Above your pie shop, ma'am?

Mrs. Lovett, spoken: That's it, Sir

Beadle, spoken: Then Mr. Todd, you shall surely see me there before the week is out.

Todd, spoken: You will be welcome, Beadle Bamford

And I guarantee to give you, without a penny′s charge

The closest shave you will ever know