If all the whores with crimson drawers,
Came walking down the strand,
Do you suppose, the Walrus said,
That we could raise a stand?
I doubt it, said the Carpenter,
But wouldn't it be grand,
And all the while the dirty sod,
Was coming in his hand.

When you were only sweet sixteen,
And you had a little quim,
You stood before the looking-glass,
And put one finger in.
But now that you are old and gray,
And losing all your charm,
I can get five fingers in,
And half my fucking arm.