There was an old whore from the Azores,
Who's cunt was so covered with sores,
That the dogs in the street,
Wouldn't eat the green meat,
That hung from festoons in her drawers.
There once was a rector from Kings,
Who's mind was on Heavenly things,
But his heart was on fire,
For this boy in the choir,
Who's ass was like jelly on springs.
There was an old maid from Camelot,
Who survived on frog shit and snot,
When she grew tired of these,
She'd eat the green cheese,
That she scraped from the sides of her twat.
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