She’s sunk, at least an inch in height,
She does not walk so fast,
But, her virgin state is not yet done,
Her single life’s not past;
For when the men have ogled her,
I’ve heard them whispering say
She must be old, and so I’ve thought
For her hair is turning grey!
From Wiseheart’s Merry Songster. Dublin.
——:o:——