The poem
Confound all aberrations which Make men do foolish things, Like buying bracelets for a bitch, Or witless wedding rings. As if we had not woe enough Our simple souls to vex, Without that brand of trouble stuff We label Sex.
Has science not the means produced For human propagation, By artificially induced Insemination? Then every man might be a priest, And every maid a nun . . . Oh well, as chaste as they at least,-- But nix on fun.
Just think how we would grow in grace If lust we could exclude; Then innocence might take its place, --Well, in a sense it could. How we would be forever free From passions that perplex! What peace on earth if only we Could outlaw Sex!