There was a young man from Rangoon
Whose farts could be heard to the moon.
When you'd least expect 'em,
They'd burst from his rectum
With the force of a raging typhoon.

There was a young fellow named Bowen 
            Whose pecker kept growin' and growin'. 
                It grew so tremendous, 
                So long and so pendulous, 
            'Twas no good for fuckin'---just showin'. 

There was a young man had the art
Of making a capital tart
With a handful of shit
Some snot and a spit
And he'd flavour the whole with a fart. 

There once was a man from Kartomb
Who was exceedingly fond of the womb.
He thought nothing finer
Than the human vagina,
So he kept three of four in his room 

A habit uncouth and unsav'ry, 
               Kept the Bishop of Essex in slav'ry, 
                    Midst shrieks, hoots, and howls, 
                    He'd bugger large owls, 
               Which he kept in an underground av'ry.