Let me tell you a little story About Miss Edith Gee; She lived in Clevedon Terrace At Number 83. She’d a slight squint in her left eye, Her lips they were thin and small, She had narrow sloping shoulders And she had no bust at all. She’d a velvet hat with trimmings, And a dark grey serge costume; She lived in Clevedon Terrace In a small bed-sitting room. She’d a purple mac for wet days, A green umbrella too to take, She’d a bicycle with shopping basket And a harsh back-pedal brake. The Church of Saint Aloysius Was not so very far; She did a lot of knitting, Knitting for that Church Bazaar. Miss Gee looked up at the starlight And said, ‘Does anyone care That I live in Clevedon Terrace On one hundred pounds a year?’ She dreamed a dream one evening That she was the Queen of France And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius Asked Her Majesty to dance. But a storm blew down the palace, She was biking through a field of corn, And a bull with the face of the Vicar Was charging with lowered horn. She could feel his hot breath behind her, He was going to overtake; And the bicycle went slower and slower Because of that back-pedal brake. Summer made the trees a picture, Winter made them a wreck; She bicycled to the evening service With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She passed by the loving couples, She turned her head away; She passed by the loving couples And they didn’t ask her to stay. Miss Gee sat down in the side-aisle, She heard the organ play; And the choir it sang so sweetly At the ending of the day, Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle, She knelt down on her knees; ‘Lead me not into temptation But make me a good girl, please.’ The days and nights went by her Like waves round a Cornish wreck; She bicycled down to the doctor With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She bicycled down to the doctor, And rang the surgery bell; ‘O, doctor, I’ve a pain inside me, And I don’t feel very well.’ Doctor Thomas looked her over, And then he looked some more; Walked over to his wash-basin, Said: ‘Why didn’t you come before?’ Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner, Though his wife was waiting to ring, Rolling his bread into pellets; Said, ‘Cancer’s a funny thing. ‘Nobody knows what the cause is, Though some pretend they do; It’s like some hidden assassin Waiting to strike at you. ‘Childless women get it, And men when they retire; It’s as if there had to be some outlet For their foiled creative fire.’ His wife she rang for the servant, Said, ‘Don’t be so morbid, dear’; He said: ‘I saw Miss Gee this evening And she’s a goner, I fear.’ They took Miss Gee to the hospital, She lay there a total wreck, Lay in the ward for women With the bedclothes right up to her neck. They laid her on the table, The students began to laugh; And Mr. Rose the surgeon He cut Miss Gee in half. Mr. Rose he turned to his students, Said, ‘Gentlemen, if you please, We seldom see a sarcoma As far advanced as this.’ They took her off the table, They wheeled away Miss Gee Down to another department Where they study Anatomy. They hung her from the ceiling, Yes, they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers Carefully dissected her knee.