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A numerologist from Calcutta
Loved to prime numbers utter
Two bottles of whisky
Three gins, she was frisky
Five lagers, she slept in the gutter.

She took a trip on a liner.
Because she thought nothing was finer.
Then twenty nine sailors
And Norwegian whalers
Took turns to wine her and dine her.

The Captain’s name he was Pythagorus
Smoked nineteen a day and was amorous.
They stopped at Vancouver
For a critical manoeuvre
But he crashed and then all turned cantankerous.

She then ran off with the stoker.
But he was quite mediocre.
She joined the Dagenham girl pipers
And now she’s changing diapers
With a Milton Keynes insurance broker.

The poor gal, she now is deceased.
Call one zero three for the Priest.
T’was the five sixty niner
Back on the liner
Now she’ll always face south by south east.
(The details remain unreleased).