I once dated an old man called Whisky Whose tendency was to get frisky His hands they would wander A quick slap then he'd ponder So I shipped him to the Bay of Biscay
But halfway there he jumped ship What happened to him? Did he flip? I scanned the horizon And then fixed my eyes on The scoundrel, he'd made a round trip
She warned him that she'd had enough That on him she's going to be tough He gave not a fig His own hole he'd dig So he packed up and travelled to Brough!