Into the arena , with scowling demeanor
She flounced- and began to berate
the Bare-blower’s kisses
his friend and his misses
that shoveled it up on a plate.
Nicktom is as bad; forget he’s a lad
With a bollic-king coming his way
Send him straight to the river
make him stand and deliver
And bring in a new measure of play
And the tailor who stitches-- makes pant-
aloon britches come down at a drop of a hat
Looks over her shoulder much braver and bolder
That him in the hat did his shat----erring stuff ..
yip yip! Doing that crash dance..
No Mercy
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