There was a young lady of Maine
Who declared she'd a man on the brain.
But you knew from the view
Of the way her waist grew
It was not on her brain that he'd lain.
There was a young lady of Wantage
Of whom the Town Clerk took advantage.
Said the County Surveyor,
"Of course you must pay her;
You've altered the line of her frontage."
Though a self-confessed egalitarian,
Nan indulged rites that were not riparian.
So one sunny day,
Nine months after a lay,
She succumbed to her second cæsarean.
Since her baby came, little Miss Snow
Won’t diddle, she just hollers "no."
She thinks a fat senator
It’s likely progenitor
But having laid ten she can’t know.
Said a girl to her friend from Milpitas,
"There's a doctor in town who will treat us
For feminine ills
And hot and cold chills,
Or even abort a young fœtus."
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