There was a young man of Bombay, Who fashioned a c--t out of clay. But the heat of his prick, Turned it into a brick, And chafed all his foreskin away. Send this poem to a friend 1 There was a young lady of Michigan, Who said, "Damn it! I've got the itch again." Said her mother, "That's strange, I'm surprised it ain't mange, If you've slept with that son-of-a-bitch again." Send this poem to a friend 2 So here was this fellow from Strensall, Whose pecker was shaped like a pencil, Anemic, 'tis true, But an interesting screw, Inasmuch as the tip is prehensile. Send this poem to a friend 3 There was a young fellow of Strensall, Whose prick was as sharp as a pencil. On the night of his wedding, It went through the bedding, And shattered the chamber utensil. Send this poem to a friend 4 There was a young fellow from Wark, Who, when he screws, has to bark. His wife is a bitch, With a terrible itch, So the town never sleeps after dark. Send this poem to a friend 5
