Having come across this thread a day or two ago caused me to remember the following little poem.

Once upon a time there was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had a nice pair of lace curtains her name was Cherry Blossom and toe-cap it all she'd lots and lots of children. During the war her husband Jack flew Wellingtons. Up toe-nail he'd worked at the sea-shore as a winkle-picker, walking the Sand all day, they were ballet poor but still eat O.K. The poor souls were on their uppers. One day Dr Martin called, it was patently obvious something was wrong, Jack had clogged up, the old woman swayed. No more to hear his gentle brogue his loving load of cobblers. His flip-flopping through the door.

She bought a hush-puppie called Dubbin to keep her company and on the advice of her solicitors; Freeman, Hardy and Willis she visited the Tough town clerk, who was a right plimsole, a real heel, tongue-tied she told him "I'm a widow, please find me a dwelling" but the town clerk had a cold "a shoe" he spat, "Well if that's all you've got going I'll have that" she replied.

Now all will be revelled, one day there was a tap on the door, in stepped, Dr Martin an up-standing old meltonian, he was polish, no he wasn't he was Polish, and she took a shine to him as he stud in the hall. He knew Cherry Blossom loved presents so he decided to slip her on under the table. To sneak her one in the wardrobe, love was a foot. Now at last the conclusion. There was an old woman who lived in a shoe she had so many children now there's another one due.