My sweetest pie of berries,
If you, on this occasion,
take out my heart
(just help yourself) by
she is not old.
Though she denies
some salient facts,
The double helix, yes.
Talking genomes here,
all are four letter words,
He had released a bit of gas
and felt a need to scratch his ass.
He was in public and he stank,
considered it a youthful prank.
There once was a Vicar named Groon
he was raised with a true silver spoon.
And at bedtime he'd take
for his haemorrhoids' sake
He has grown, in the clinic, a beard
but the stubbles are rough and much feared
by the soft, peachy skin
of both cheeks and her chin,
He slept the dream of ethanol
and when he woke, his battered soul
was in a mood too foul to bear
as vomit stuck in his gray hair.
There once was a fellow named Gripp.
He let poems roll over his lip.
With the Kraut in his genes
he has more than the means