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.
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