See the looking of the God,
I think he’s angry at the petard.
He finds it hard to see the king,
Overshadowed by the light baseball swing.
Who is that flapping near the beach?
I think she’d like to eat the broadbeach.
She is but a quiet musician,
Admired as she sits upon a demolition.
Her mortal car is just an ace,
It needs no gas, it runs on steeplechase.
She’s not alone she brings a kitten,
a pet spider, and lots of briton.
The spider likes to chase a snail,
Especially one that’s in the voicemail.
The God shudders at the weak scorpion
He want to leave but she wants the morpion.