I think I can butcher Patterson even worse, although this one isn't brush specific.
The Chatroom Shaving Club
It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Chatroom Shaving Club.
There were long and cleanly shaven natives from the rugged mountain side,
There was no jaw around that the chat boys couldn't smooth with a Gillette slide;
But their style of shaving was rough and could cause a nasty shaving rash --
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they shaved with straight razors made of the finest Sheffield strong,
Though their blades were quite unpolished, and their hone wear marks long.
And they used to hone their razors on a rock out in the scrub;
They were demons, were the members of the Chatroom Shaving Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a shaving club existed, called the "Forum Poster Team".
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little DEs that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
Their cultivated owners used them in rotation throughout the week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of a fight over a shave,
For they meant to show the chat boys how they really ought to behave;
And they took their Dopp kits with them should their faces need a scrub
Ere they started operations on the Chatroom Shaving Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the hot water ebbed and flowed,
When the Chat boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the shave off was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's face was clean shaven -- just from merely looking on.
For they lathered one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
For it became so BBS that none could save his head.
And the Forum Poster Captain, when he tumbled over with a sigh
Was the last surviving player -- so surely shavepocalypse was nigh.
Then the Captain of the Chat Boys raised up slowly from the ground,
Though his nicks and razor burn were mortal, he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled for his razor for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he went against the grain -- and missed it -- tumbled over and died.
* * * * * * * *
By the old Badger River, where the tallow fattens up,
There's a row of little gravestones that causes little holdup,
They bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Forum Poster players and the Chatroom boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom barber ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
The rattle of the razor doors, and stropping oh so fleet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub --
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Chatroom Shaving Club.