It might be a wee bit quicker
To sweetly write a joke disentangled
From poetic sugar coated inter-mixture.
I am a sick dingo, a chocoholic Fitzgerald.
Here we are now at punchline mangled:
I ate your baby, Ruth. (now snickers)
Krishna has eight majestic queens,
And sixteen thousand maiden concubines.
To each one his loving heart stays blue.
Envy not, for with tremendous pressure true,
Do his swollen pair of sapphires shine.
You'll laugh about this someday
Because, now the joke isn't funny
Because, the punchline is late.
And so is the rent.
In the future, today is the straight
Man shopping for a tent.
Today is the Abbot to your Costello.
You'll grow out of this someday, you short, fat fellow.