I wonce had a doctor who bred.
He had sixty fower sons to bee fed ;
for he had twenty wives
And fower lovers beside…
His sixty five gurls all got wed.

So the doctor created a tribe.
And wrote millions of emales besides.
At last he wore out,
Then he wallowed in dowt
About what sort of drink to imbibe.

Brandy is good for gut panes.
And to rub neat onto your chillblanes.
Yet whiskey galo’er
When the rane down doth pore
Can make won feel spring like wonce moor.

I  know you have to leave me,
Though you desire a longer stay
Let me hold you in my arms now
For just tonight and, perhaps. one day.

Then I’ll watch you travel on,sweet.
We   take this last step all alone.
I’ll be here beside you watching.
I shall sense when you are gone.

May you accept, may you surrender.
May you reach the promised land.
Into this earth my tears will fall,love
When I feel your cold,cold hands