| |
There I was hammering nails again
into the highway
When Marge walked up from behind
'Hey benchworm...making a fort, eh? '
That Marge she really
cooks my goose
It was three blind mice
all day long
thinking about honkin'
the juice, the old 'arooooogahh'
Hot as frying pan dodges,
wicked cornball stings fresh from
Ulysses S. Grant
then graduated decline of warm floods
Whittling stew bits
takes all kinds of time
So disassembly and debt
basically
prevent change
and cracker quackers...DUCK!
Thank goodness for the sane
and exchange
Tailor Bell
|
|
User Rating: |
|
10.0
/10
(12 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend