I wonce had a doctor who bred.
He had sixty fower sons to bee fed ;
for he had twenty wives
And fower lovers beside…
His sixty five gurls all got wed.
So the doctor created a tribe.
And wrote millions of emales besides.
At last he wore out,
Then he wallowed in dowt
About what sort of drink to imbibe.
Brandy is good for gut panes.
And to rub neat onto your chillblanes.
Yet whiskey galo’er
When the rane down doth pore
Can make won feel spring like wonce moor.