Everytime we hear a stroke of ill-luck
We clutch our old hearts and say ptch
And our only lips are yet not stitched.
A sweet , not enough married, woman
Now majorly spinsterish all by herself
Has now her lips sealed to any nature.
What stroke of luck, her life and limb
Are not stitched to bathroom and bed.
Trust her luck to keep her hands free.
We old men still have our hands free
And while we are at it our poems flow
By a stroke of luck we have lips free.