Mary, Mary . . . . .

Mary, Mary, quite contrary . . . . . .
I will bear you a son, mine as well as yours;
Henry VIII struggled to have one, never knew me,
perhaps God punished him for his infidelity.

How does your garden grow?
difficult to get male heirs, only graces;
some things could not be changed successfully,
you do not know where you came from regrettably.

With silver bells and cockle shells,
which rang out to celebrate a passing;
the pilgrims trudged along with their logos,
went to places in heaven where no one goes.

And pretty maids all in a row,
bare your covered heads, no more tales of woe.