And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she’ll swear that black is white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.
She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little ones, they’re black and blue with dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking,
The plague of the modern time.
Moral.
The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”