My dress is so discreet.
My chosen gown hangs so far down
It only shows my feet.
But what about the upper half,
My dearest mademoiselle?
This isn’t good; you know you should
Have covered them as well.
I really do wonder about my mental state sometimes, you know. Really. It’s a bit like an inferior version of Lewis Carroll’s, only more sordid.
Twas dinty and the grubbly gribs
Did splish and splucker in the munt.
All swowdel was the crickly slick,
And the pantig preths astunt.
See what I mean? No hope.
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