The vainest girls in forty statesWere Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates;They warbled, slightly off the air,Romantic German songs,And each of them upon her hairEmployed the curling tongs,And each with ardor most intenseHer buxom figure laced, Until her wilful want of senseProcured a woeful waist:For bound to marry titled matesWere Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates. Yet, truth to tell, the swains were fewOf Gwendolyn (and Gladys, too).So morning, afternoon, and nightUpon their sister theyWere wont to vent their selfish spite,And in the rudest way:For though her name was Leonore,That's neither there nor here