The youth who frequent picture palaces
Have no use for psychoanalysis,
And although Dr Freud
Is distinctly annoyed,
They cling to their long-standing fallacies. 

                    There was a young man named Sweeny
                            
                    Who spilt some gin on his weenie,
                            So just to be couth,
                            He added vermouth
                            
                    And slipped his girl a martini.
                            

Why, oh why, does this happen to me?
How did I end up stuck in this tree?
The ground down below looks so far away,
That if I would fall it would take me all day
To hit the ground, with a thud and a thunk.
And knowing my luck I'd land on a skunk.
So here I will sit 'til my dying day.
Or maybe, at least, 'til that bear goes away. 

There was a young man, name of Snyder, 
            Who took out a girl just to ride her. 
                She allowed him to feel 
                From her neck to her heel, 
            But never would let him inside her. 

            Have you heard of the Widow O'Riley 
            Who esteemed her late husband so highly 
                That in spite of the scandal, 
                Her umbrella handle 
            Was made of his membrum virile.