In tickled fancy
I do dancy
Lovely, so they say.
It's truly vexing
Quite perplexing
Flexing, all the day.
This chicken soup
It tastes like poop
I'd like one that's not poopy
For lo I see
No celery
And chicken not so soupy
I dare to say
that something may
be stuck within your hair,
I'll get my bat
Remove your hat
My aim is true I swear
For seven Suns
I've got the buns
The stories have foretold,
They'll keep their form
Through thickest storm
Until they both grow old
And so I say
To those that may
Re-read these words with cheer,
It's never over
Til it's over
Watch, here, hold my beer