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 If
16 was 38,
No griddles to facilitate,
A bath for Emma Morgrow,
Yoddy-dar.
Call
the hammer "Bonnie Womp"
And the gavel, you may have to,
Nail the gar to the bar,
Yoddy-dar.
The rover and the drover,
In a field of golden clover,
Rip the heart within a plover.
Their fingers, now greasy,
Now wiped upon the lawn
Of the comely, lovely Emma.
Emma dilly, Emma dally,
Emma: Lilly of the Valley.
She can get not where she's going
If she tries.
For she hasn't got the bowels,
Nor the flour, nor the owls,
For this Sunday morning breakfast
That she fries.
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