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Poem	Jenny was my first sweetheart; Poor lass! she was none too smart. Though I swore she'd never rue it, She would never let me do it. When I tried she mad a fuss, So damn pure and virtuous. Girls should cozen all they can, Use their wiles to get their man. June, my second, was no prude; Too good-looking to be good; Wanton and a giddy-gadder, Never knew who might have had her; Kept me mad and jumping jealous, Tempting all the other fellows Like a wayside flower to pluck her: So at last I had to chuck her. Now I'm settled down with Jill, And we're safely married still. She began to wail and worry, So we wedded in a hurry. Well, it's quite all right that way - We're all made of common clay, And the grey-haired folk that bore us Just as wanton were before us. June, I hear, now lives in London Where, I fear, she's sadly undone. Jenny, still as virtuous Missed the matrimonial bus, Where our "first" set gossips buzzin' Jill and I now have a dozen, Ready in their turn to prove There's no chastity in love. June, so fickle and so fair, Common was as barber's chair; Jill provides me with good grub, Lets me go nights to the pub. Though her silver hairs are many, One eve I might call on Jenny . . . She may not need too much urging: Must be hell to die a virgin.
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