Old Mrs Fancourt, gone to god,
smelt of lavender and wees.
I'm sure she wore those bloomers
that came down to her knees.
Her teeth were false,
her hair was permed,
her lips were flaming red.
Despite her faulty bladder though,
she never wet her bed.
jerry hughes
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-f/
