"Fathom the Bowl" ends with a story to which, I have always thought, there must be another side:

My husband never tires of lying around.
He drinks like a fish, and he sings like a hound.
He eats like a pig and makes love like a troll,
And the day he drops dead, I will fathom the bowl.

There is also that lovely satire on male sexual vanity (or at least so I read it) that (in one of its many versions) begins:

FOUR OLD WHORES OF LIVERPOOL
Were drinking sherry wine,
And one said to the other:
"Yours is no bigger than mine."