There was a young girl from Thermopylae
Who dressed so exceedingly slopylae
There was no way of tracing
Which way she was facing
Except by behaving impropylae.
There was a New Yorker named Hannah
Who liked to make love on a piannah
A hell of a fine way
To treat a new Steinway
But such is the star-spangled mannah.
At post-mortems a doctor from Chad
When he found that the pieces he had
Totalled less then the whole
Called the rest “Weight of soul”
(But the fact is, he just couldn’t add).
A vociferous tenor from Napoli
Sang the third act of Tosca so scrapoli
That the cast said, “Oh do let’s
Use actual bullets.”
And they did, so it all ended happily.
There was a young girl of Bermuda
Every man on the island had wooed her
I’m afraid that the rest
Must be sternly supressed
It gets ruder and ruder and ruder.
There was a gym mistress from Munich
Who was four times as big as her tunic
The chaps in Bavaria
Like a large area
(Not that they’re specially unique).
There was a young man of the Lido
Who subdued a ferocious libido
By fasting and prayer
A shirt made of hair
And a girl here and there, same as we do.
“In France,” said an English Milord
“I frequently found I was bored
Till I left the George Cinq
For the opposite bank
Where I learned some home thoughts from a broad.”
There was a young man of Utrecht
Whose approach was both crude and direct
To a girl he would say
“Are you good for a lay?”
(He did better than one might expect).
There was a young curate of Kew
Who kept a tom-cat in a pew
He tried to teach it to speak
But it never got further than mew.
There was a young man from St Bees
Who was stung on the nose by a wasp
When they asked, “Does it hurt?
He said, “Yes, it does
Thank goodness it wasn’t a hornet!”
There was a young poet from Cannes
Whose long verses never did scan
When they pointed this out
In reply, he would shout,
“I like to get as many words in the last line as I possibly can.”
There was an young belle of old Natchez
Whose garments were always in patchez
When comment arose
On the state of her clothes
She drawled, “When Ah itchez, Ah scratchez.”
There was an old man of Calcutta
Who coated his tonsils with butta
This converted his snore
From a thunderous roar
To a soft, oleaginous mutta.