Said the tutor to the maiden,
In a voice with sorrow laden,
And a lumpy, thumpy something in his throat, throat, throat,
"Tell me truly, dainty fairy,
Ere your precious self I marry,
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You will truly-ruly never want to vote, vote, vote."
IV.
But he quailed beneath the glitter
Of her eyes so cold and bitter,
As she started, darted at him with a rush, rush, rush,
And the maiden wrote a thesis
On his few remaining pieces,
Which she gather'd in a dust-pan with a brush, brush, brush.
R. R.