Poem -

The Grand Old Duke of York

The Grand Old Duke of York

The grand old Duke of York had so many women,
he marched them up to the top of the hill and down again,
when they were up they were up and when they were down,
they were down and when halfway up, neither up nor down.

Uncle Bill said that he'd had a thousand women,
but he was a musician with many strings to his bow,
he'd just stood there with many in the queue,
it was inevitable, there was nothing he could do.

The Sheik of Araby rode off into history,
dragging his entourage harem magically,
those Arabian Nights 'Into my tent he creeps,'
and George was writing, 'While my guitar gently weeps.'

We should remember to abide by the things we're taught,
alternatively, to ensure: 'thou shalt not get caught.'

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