'Twas zaftig, and the writhy droves
Did bare their bimbles at the babe
All nipsy were her netherloaves
Where the gnome's staff did stabe.

Beware the whackyerjock, my son!
The hairy palm, the hivey patch!
Do not rubdub your bird, and shun
Her flooziness and her snatch!

He took his porple sword in hand,
Long time the wanksome ho he sought
Then rested he by the numnut tree
And boobled while he thought.

And, as in frottish thought he sat,
The whackyerjock, with practiced aim,
Encircled 'round his tulgey wood,
And burbled as he came!

Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! and straight and true,
His porple pickle poked a whack!
He drew it out, and standing stout,
Gallumphed all down her back.

And hast thou poked the whackyerjock?
Come to my arms, my mackish boy!
O, dildous day! hip, hip, hooray!
He dirkled in his joy.

'Twas zaftig, and the writhy droves
Did bare their bimbles at the babe
All nipsy were her netherloaves
Where the porple staff did stabe.