Not a sound was heard, but the ottoman shook,
And my darling looked awfully worried,
As round her fair form I a firm hold took,
And John Thomas I silently buried.

We buried him deeply at dead of night,
The tails of our night-shirts upturning;
With struggling raptures and fits of delight,
The night-lights dimly burning.

No useless French Letters enclosed his crest,
For ne'er in such rubbish we bound him;
But he went like a warrior taking his test,
With naught but his fur coat around him.

Few and short were the sighs we gave,
Though we oftentimes groaned as in sorrow,
As at each stroke for the joy we'd rave,
Ne'er giving a thought for the morrow.

But as yet he had not nearly done,
And ne'er had a thought of retiring,
When suddenly to groan we again had begun
Through John Thomas silently firing.

And we thought, as he came from his narrow bed,
As lifeless and limp as a willow,
How lowly he hung down his diminished head,
And how gladly he'd rest on his pillow.