There is a young lass called 'Myrtle',
Who off to Whitby will hurtle.
She'll be wearing her corset,
If men try to 'force it'
I think she might just turn turtle.

She will pull all the laces in tight,
Make it hard for her singing at night.
She may loosen them later,
Now for that I could cater,
But she'd tell me to go fly a kite.

In truth our young Myrtle is fun,
And when all her goth days are done.
She'll come back to her folkies,
And sing and crack jokies(Ugh)
And brighten our lives like the sun.