The wind was rough and cold and blough;
She kept her hands inside her mough.
It chilled her through, her nose turned blough,
And still the squall the faster flough.
And yet although there was no snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.
It made her cough (please do not scough),
She coughed until her hat blough ough.


--I've seen this credited to Benet Cerf.