Old Oxford was a merry ole' sole,
And a marryin' old soul was he.
He lived with his wives, all thirty and three,
In a shoe called the 'Rescue Me.'
Every morning at six, he arose from his fix,
And worked like a good bourgeoisie.
And produced a mountain of nikes, for his 101 tikes,
With feet like an anthropoid ape.
His wives told him, "chimps don't have souls,or feet like moles!"
but alas, their advice he did not keep.
So with a big hoo-doo, his brides left the shoe,
And moved to the blue Galilee.
Where they set up shop, called 'The New IHOP,'
Selling Oxford's useless leather crop.
And made a fortune in cash, from the old leather stash,
(Which was using great wisdom. . .don't ya see)
Along came a spider, ordered a cider,
And asked if any soles were to be had.
They pointed up North, to which he directed his course,
said to the black widow from the thirty and three.
Which is what you'd expect, if you'd fail to neglect,
advice from your thirty and three.