She breeds like centipedes.
She feeds. She needs. She bleeds.
The suffering mother of millions
aims high, perhaps even quadrillions.
Her womb is a room to so many,
it once earned a line from Jack Benny.
Her milk, if collected in jars,
would reach half the distance to Mars.
She has sixty daughters named Millie,
and unisex thousands named Billie.
Though none of ’em strays from her sights,
there’s hardly a handful that writes,
Her life’s been spent spreading her legs.
Who knew she’d contain all those eggs?
There’s sixty-five daughters named Janet.
Her spawn are all swarming the planet.
God bless you, good mother of millions.
Surprisingly, most are Sicilians.