There once was a Whore in Helsinki,

Who summoned her Beaux with a Pinkie,

One eve, by the oche,

She saw a fine Bloke,

Never dreamed that he'd give her the Itchy;

The Wench was an Acarophobian,

Denegated all who were Pavlovian

But her eye shadow hid,

A tremulous lid,

Since the Crabs she caught from a Moldovian,

Boom-Boom!

Monday morning dawned and I struggled awake, blearily aware that today was the final of the Darts Tournament, playing for a trophy I had won every year so far and had no intention of losing, but I wasn't prepared to admit that my acarophobia had grown much worse and now I could hardly get out of bed for fear of those damn bugs all over my room; as usual I handed myself some lame denegation of the feelings and repeated to myself aloud that I was well prepared to step up to the oche in the Pub down the road, but when I finally made it to the bathroom I saw that the stress and insomnia had given me eyes that looked like I'd plastered them with brown and black eye shadow.