Once was a dunce born into a sack, But how could that happen? you ask, His mother the 'foresaid container did take, And round her vagina did clasp. He lived in that sack nigh on twenty-one years, Though finally he slowly emerged, Two wizended buttocks the first sight he saw, A fart was the first sound he heard. Back in your sack! quoth the wrinkled old crone, I'm having the vicar to tea, I ne'er shall return to that prison of cloth, It's itchy and quite smells of wee.