Edith Blake’s children were on fire
She cast her eyes about for a pail of water
But she found a coatstand made out of wire
And proceded to beat out her daughter.
Her daughter cried, “Mummy, I’m not a flame!
I’m an inferno, can’t you see this is true?
My edges are rosy, my centre is red,
My brows are tinged with this blue.
Edith Blake now looked at her son
He really made a nice currant bun:
Though blackened and broken and now in a coma
The boy gave off a fruity aroma.
When Edith Blake began burning too
She pondered, “oh well, what can one do?”