I met an old woman,
I'm telling the truth.
Short, straight, white hair
And one curly, black tooth.
Her bloodshot eyes,
Like flaming magenta,
Were so close together
They met in the centre!

She had two false legs
Although not a pair.
One made of a broomshank,
The other a chair.
To help with her balance
She fashioned from logs
Two great big feet
In the shape of dutch clogs.

With less of a limp,
She walked with a lump.
Her left foot would thud
And her right foot would thump.
But I'll sing her praises,
Though I'd never romance her,
That little old lady,
Was a heck of a dancer.

She could fandango
With a bit of a dangle,
And she could tango
Although at an angle.
On a wooden dance-floor,
You may think I'm joking,
But when she did the twist
Her legs would start smoking!

02/22/2007