The Spell of the Rod

When Lucy's fine rump was first bared to the twigs. She was finely cut up and her flesh torn in shreds; She cried out for mercy in her dire distress. Promising amendment as we lowered her dress.

She had been most naughty, and a bad rude girl. Who presumed the hair on her fanny to curl; But the birch reached her quim as well as her bum. The height of her agony was glorious fun.

Her frightened looks, and deep blushes of shame. Set our hearts pit-a-pit, and our senses in flame; The old cockolorums our cunnies would grope. Then tossed us on sofas and had a fine stroke.

So all those slow coaches, who a rise scarce can get; Come, pay your respect to Our Lady St. Bridget; She'll warm up your blood till it boils in your veins, And your penis all his pristine vigour regains.

Let the birch be your love, St. Bridget your saint, Never flinch from the rod, nor think of a faint; Swish - swish - let it fall, till the glow of desire. Will run thro' your senses, and set them on fire.

Ah! then you can fuck! and fuck, ah! so well! That my Muse quite fails your joys to foretell; But with oceans of spending, the fuck never ending, Your ecstasy goes on, for a long time extending