That day she seized me like a bee,
  To make me her weak blossom,
I felt her arms so strong that I
  Lay helpless on her bosom.
But cunning I, by artful moves,
  Soon had her in my power:
'Ah, Molly, who's the strong bee now -
  And who's the poor weak flower?'

That time she thought I was a fly,
  And she a great big spider,
She held me fast, my breath was gone,
  As I lay bound beside her.
But cunning I, by artful moves,
  Could laugh at last and cry:
'Ah, Molly, who's the spider now -
  And who's the poor weak fly?'