Give Becky a bushel of of velvet and tulle,
Of shadow and liner a pound;
Some hair glue and spray to sweep over her skull,
And lace to encompass it round.
Her boots gleam like metal from kneecap to nub,
With platforms so high she can't jump;
And the gloom-cookie decked out complete for the club
Lets the bustle provide her a rump.
So finished in taste while on Becky you gaze,
You can take the dear thing for a whirl:
But don't dare undress her, for out of her stays,
You will find that you've lost half your girl.