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| There once was a playwright, Ben Jonson Who dated the daughter of Swanson. They were living in sin When Swanson burst in Saying Jonson, you'd better be gone, son. So Jonson lay over with Kit Marlow until they had hit Each other and then He struck out again To call Father Swanson a git. Old Swanson was sitting at brunch When Jonson burst in with a punch And some dip and some chips And a whole lot of quips About daughters and carpets and munch. After belting a jigger or two, Swanson was gossiping, too, About his young girl And the resident Earl; When his poor, sickly daughter came to. As she lay in her room with the flu She heard Daddy's words through the flue. He called her a whore With a laugh (maybe more). So into a tantrum she flew, Screaming "No one fu*ks me, so, fu*k you!", She jabbed out his eye with a yew. At the pique of her fit She skedaddled with Kit. I've heard she plays ram to his ewe. (Moral) Take good care, oh, you writer of plays, Or just like the daughter who strays Away from her Da, You won't get too fa' Before all that is moral decays. |
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