I don't care how you sin, my dear,
Or how you save your virtue,
Or how the man you love or wed
Will try his best to hurt you.

The ancient plan I have in mind
Is wild at first, then mild,
When passion droops to tenderness
And then the hungry child.

You mustn't think me cynical,
I'm finical and grim:
I merely want my way with you,
My way through you to him.