There once was a writer named Twain
Who had a peculiar stain
Surrounding the head
Of his prick, it was red
And it was said to wash off in the rain. 

The wife of young Richard of Limerick 
               Complained to her hesband, "My quim, Rick, 
                    Still grows in diameter 
                    Each time that you ram at her; 
               How can your poor tool stay so slim, Rick?" 

            Thank God for the Duchess of Gloucester, 
            She obliges all who accost her. 
                She welcomes the prick 
                Of Tom, Harry, or Dick, 
            Or Baldwin, or even Lord Astor. 

There was a young fellow named Paul
                            
                    Who confessed, "I have only one ball.
                            But the size of my prick
                            Is God's dirtiest trick,
                            
                    For my girls always ask, 'Is that all?'"
                            

There once was a fellow named Clyde,
Who fell in an outhouse and died.
Along came his brother
Who fell in another,
And now they're interred side by side.