In the catacombs under St Pauls Lives a man who wears twenty-five shawls He used to wear thirty But three got all dirty And two more got snagged on the walls.
I've recently moved to West Berks And my poems are scoring low marks My scansion's just fine But for every last line, I just can't find one more rhyme that works
An old spinster hen from South Worcester Was in need of a good morale borcester She did get it made When finally laid By a strapping young Rhode Island rorcester
"I cannot believe it's not butter" Is a phrase that you won't hear me utter For I'd much rather spread Worcester Sauce on my bread And yet people still think I'm a nutter!