You're A Keen One...

It was Thelma, and her wench.
And Robert knew the deal.
He’s as seeded as his Chargers,
As moray-cious as an eel
In the clinch.

He’s the top banana—
No. The Lord Privy Seal.

That means “not much,” Mr. Clinch.
I warned you I’d get bold.
My house is full of spiders,
I've got pudding in my soul.
I won’t flinch!

I still say “doody,” and I’m
Thirty-eight-and-a-half years old.

I’m an ill one, Mr. Clinch.
I have termites in my sill.
I have all the tender sweetness
Of a jagged little pill.
Mr. Clinch.

Given the choice between the AssVac and me,
You should take the freakin’ pills.

I’m a scowler, Mr. Clinch.
I'm a bitchy, witchy, blunt.
My mouth is full of rotten words
(Did not want to say “blunt”!)
Mr. Clinch.

The three words that best describe me,
Are, as follows, and I quote: "Drink. Drank. Drunk."

So now, Robert. Mr. Clinch.
You're the king of my bon mots.
But my yard still kills tomato pots
It’s only green in spots,
Mr. Clinch.

My home is an appalling dung heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled up knots.

It bilifies me, Mr. Clinch.
With a bilious super-bile.
It’s a pit of pony pockey
And I bought it all sub-prime.
Mr. Clinch.

It’s a one-decker pickled-beet and pink-egg sandwich
With Cozymel’s sauce!


Sorry, Mr. Geisel. And Mr. Robert. Happy Merry!


Oh also PS there's still that contest I declared this morning down there. Nobody's played yet, and if nobody does by tomorrow morning I'll just nix it all together.