Can say while briny tear-drops start,
I’d rather wed a crooked stick
Than never wed no stick at all.
Rather than laughed at be as of yore
I’d rather laugh myself no more.
I’d rather go half-clad and starved
And mops and dish-cloths madly wave
Than have the words B Bobbit carved
On headstone rising o’er my grave
Proud thought, now when that stun is risen,