Ooh girl you’re off the charts,
You’re a gooey mess, just like this pop tart.
I’d stick you in the oven just till you’re done,
Then flip you over and fill your center…with my tongue.
You best do me like an immigrant, because I’ll mow your lawn
And when you turn to look for me, I’ll be long gone.
Tear drops will be shed, but not because you’re sad,
Most likely because of the way you got had.
You done did it done, done.
Now choke the goose till it’s numb
And cream the outside with sweet, spicy rub,
But you’ve gotta wait till dinner for your grub.
And make like a model tax payer,
Booze it now and pay the bills later.
Till you get wasted and break nimble,
Like when we die, ending up in an all out war party limbo.