Regarding yours, dear Mrs Nightingale, Of Friday, the 4th of May — @3What@1 can I candidly say — No @3wonder@1 you're deep in dismay! Altho' Dear Flo Is clear in her tiny mind That this gruesome grisly grind Is her Destiny designed — How shall we tell The foolish gel That a nurse is a slut, a Jezebel, Whose lot is an utter, gutter hell Of mangling and mopping And sluicing and slopping Out patients who — frankly — Sweatily, dankly — Only too ranklySMELL! Don't let your daughter be a nurse, Mrs Nightingale, Don't let your Flossy flush the pans. It's unbecoming her station To moot such mutinous plans — She'd better serve the nation By tittling and tattling And prettily prattling Of nuptial bells and banns. |