When Man and Woman had been made,
All but the disposition,
The Devil to the workshop strayed,
And somehow gained admission.
The Master rested from his work,
For this was on a Sunday,
The man was snoring like a Turk,
Content to wait till Monday.
“Too bad!” the Woman cried; “Oh, why,
Does slumber not benumb me?
A disposition! Oh, I die
To know if ’twill become me!”
The Adversary said: “No doubt
’Twill be extremely fine, ma’am,
Though sure ’tis long to be without—
I beg to lend you mine, ma’am.”
The Devil’s disposition when
She’d got, of course she wore it,
For she’d no disposition then,
Nor now has, to restore it.