There was a man named Jones, you see,
Who spilled out quite the song,
Of truths which adorned so empty the air,
And soon summoned nine-hundred strong.

Disease left alone and evil did shun,
This aptly named temple of man,
With holes in the ground for order and peace,
And for commune a nail in each hand.

They toiled and they toiled, the free-thinking souls,
As for hard work was promised such mirth,
And for all their troubles, and moreso their joy,
Ol’ Jones wiped them all off the earth.

Christine, Christine, my sweet Christine,
So foolish of you to have spoke,
Now silence your lips and open them wide,
And swallow your turn, my Christine.