If his words married mine, we’d sure show ’em
I’d put rhymes in his pipe and he’d smoke ’em
And I figure words would spill with one trigger of the pun
And we’d have a pretty nifty little poem.
Neither of us would be Beach Body Ready
Yet both of us would, ’til our state was revealed t’ya.
I’d be the Last Busty Wench shown on Ballot Paper View
And he’d write in Venn Diagrambic Pentameter.