It’s a poem, students learn, about the symptoms of syphilis. I once had an affairette with a final year medic from Inverness who used to mumble it all the time, often at the most inopportune moments.
God, we were having a blast! Partying up a storm, flirting up a bigger storm...we ruled the resort.
She was a fat, round little woman, richly apparelled in velvet and lace,[…]; and the way she laughed, cackling like a hen, the way she talked to the waiters and the maid,[…] — all these unexpected phenomena impelled one to hysterical mirth, and made one class her with such immortally ludicrous types as Ally Sloper, the Widow Twankey, or Miss Moucher.
I told you shitnuts-you have only two options now; cooperation or non-cooperation.
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