The poem
I burned my fingers on the stove And wept with bitterness; But poor old Auntie Maggie strove To comfort my distress. Said she: 'Think, lassie, how you'll burn Like any wicked besom In fires of hell if you don't learn Your Shorter Catechism.'
A man's chief end is it began, (No mention of a woman's), To glorify--I think it ran, The God who made poor humans. And as I learned, I thought: if this-- (My distaste growing stronger), The Shorter Catechism is, Lord save us from the longer.
The years have passed and I begin (Although I'm far from clever), To doubt if when we die in sin Our bodies grill forever. Now I've more surface space to burn, Since I am tall and lissom, I think it's hell enough to learn The Shorter Catechism.