'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
    And she goeth upon the spree,
  And red are cheeks of the bystanders
    For her acts are light and free.

  In a seven-ounce costume
    The widow of Thomas Blythe,
  Y-perched high on the window ledge,
    The difficult can-can tryeth.

  Ten constables they essay
    To bate the dame's halloing.
  With the widow of Thomas Blythe
    Their hands are overflowing,

  And they cry: "Call the National Guard
    To quell this parlous muss—
  For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
    Are upon the spree and us!"

  O long shall the eerie tale be told
    By that posse's surviving tithe;
  And with tears bedewed he'll sing this rude
    Ball`d of the widow of Thomas Blythe.