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 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