My name is Dennis, Man of Mystery.
My brow is damp, my fingers blistery.
You’ll be amazed by my secret history,
For it’s no made-up take-the-piss-story.
I reside in Harwich, den of vices.
I trade in fruit and exotic spices.
Mrs. Hughes says I charge swingeing prices;
I hope she dies of folliculitis.
I’ve had my troubles with the local plod;
PC Evans says I’m a vicious sod
And even dumber than a gastropod,
But I’ve had his daughter, the stupid clod.
I dumped my girlfriend when she got cancer.
She called me bastard; I didn’t answer.
I’m still the town’s most adept romancer;
My latest squeeze is a Morris dancer.
I must be unpleasant; my parents fled,
And people round here regard me with dread.
The therapist thinks I’m mentally dead;
He doesn’t know what goes on in my head.
I may seem quite normal, but that’s a sham;
I once threw a kitten under a tram.
See, nobody knows who I truly am,
And I don’t suppose they could give a damn.
 Patient’s internet time to be reduced.
 Patient to give sample.
 This is not medically possible.
 Further tests required to ascertain truth.
 Patient is mistaken; it was folliculitis.
 Patient is again mistaken; he means the maypole.
 See note [3.] Or perhaps 4.
 Patient is deluded.
 Patient shows signs of recovery from delusions.