The wind was rough
And cold and blough.
She kept her hands within her mough.
It chilled her through,
Her nose turned blough,
And still the squal the faster flough –
And yet, although There was no snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.
It made her cough,
Please do not scough,
She coughed until her hat blough ough.
A fellow they call Aloysius
Of his wife and a gent grew suspysius
And as quick as a wink
Found the two by the sink
But they only were doing the dysies
A merchant addressing a debtor
Remarked in the course of his lebtor
That he chose to suppose
A man knose what he ose;
And the sooner he pays it the bebtor
There once was a man who for hiccough
Tried all of the cures he could piccough,
And the best without doubt,
As at last he found ouht,
Is warm water and salt in a ticcough