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A lady in San Francisco who had endured the tribulations of a gynecological "overhauling" set her reactions in rhyme:

They cut me up, they cut me down,
And they take my insides out,
But there’s some of me here,
And it’s all the more dear
For that which I do without.
They wash my stomach out until
I wish it were not mine,
And all the while they sweetly smile
And say, "She’s doing fine!"
They give me broth instead of food,
And junk food for dessert,
They poke my tum and then, by gum,
They ask me if it hurts!
They tangle up my private works
With pains that will not pass,
And all the time, their faces shine...
You see, it’s ONLY GAS!




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