Heed my tale, I tell no fib

Beware the home of Millicent Quibb

She’ll twist your skull until it’s loose,

Then pickle your brain in lemon juice

Her hair is wild, her clothes are smelly

All coated with fish and rotted jelly

You needn’t fear the witch’s curse

Mad scientists like her are much, much worse

If you hope to grow up past eleven

Or have a birthday when you’re seven

Or even make it past the crib

Beware the home of Millicent Quibb!

—children’s rhyme, Antiquarium and surrounding environs, 1911ish