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