Now don't ask me what started her off,
Some people say it was whooping cough,
With large medical bills
But perhaps other ills
T'was better dump her in some trough
I long for the glories of old,
When the conquests were for livestock, land and gold,
When men toted guns
And uttered lame puns
Instead of writing silly limericks while waiting for their books to be sold
Just when you thought that you'd got it,
she turns and calls you a dimwit.
That's so like a dame
To pass around blame,
not knowing you don't give a s**t.
A Buddhist, a nun, and a house painter,
walked into a bar in Decatur.
A pint of lager,
Their bound'ries vaguer,
in a setting that couldn't be quainter.
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