There was an old fogey named Stanley Who had never looked terribly manly Charles Atlas he was not His pecs had gone to pot He held no appeal for Meg Darnley
There was a young lady from Bicester Who, indeed, had a beautiful sister But beauty's skin deep And she's always asleep How on earth will she find a Mister?
I went, all dolled up to the gym today Hoping very much to be led astray But as the sweat poured down Over my new gown I realised overdoing doesn't pay.