I’m guilty. . .undermine with lies
About your organ-grinding thighs;
I’m fibbin’ sexy phones, saying, “My! Who’s loose? You!”
I crack: “Hell, she’ll wank your horn,
Blow into the place one’s born.”
All this I say
Because you scorn, abuse too.

I want you,
You taunt: “Screw!”
I haunt you so bad.
Honey, I taunt you.

A drunken proposition: “Sleep
With me and please let me go deep.
And she said, “You, dude, a ghastly creep,
A wastrel, too!”
Then she said she would not give a shtup
To dimwits; went her finger up.
“You ask me to open up my gate for you?!

“You want to
My font screw.
Don’t want you,
You’re bad!
Dummy, don’t want you!?”

She calls me “fathead,” “ape,” “pawn,” “clown,”
“You putz!” She starts to shout it.
There’s turnabout of the put-down
And so I go about it.

I return demeaning tirades
And keen that she has Cheney made,
Defibrillated and laid
This crooked turd.
Good things I don’t bleat—
Like she let that nut eat her teat,
Gave CPR to his meat. . .
Heart went pitter-patter.

I want you,
You taunt: “Screw!”
I haunt too, right back.
Honey, I taunt you.

A standoff while we prime our views;
Paroles we’ll dole out to abuse.
This comportment, no excuse for it
But I
Am fibbin’—OK! so I lied
It isn’t the truth that I’ve plied
I’m often Jekyll, sometimes Hyde
To verity ain’t sometimes hied
It’s true, the truth I sometimes hide
Perhaps that’s why you can’t abide
My ever being by your side
You’re wishing that I were tongue-tide
’cause what I say has hurt your pride
So we are mutually snide
And thus each other we deride
For each other we’ll not have vied
I won’t ask you to be my bride
There’s no chance you I’ll be astride
And going for a bareback ride
If we had weapons, we’d have tried,
I’m sure, to commit homicide
That’s something that can’t be denied
Needn’t be expressed; it’s implied
Meanwhile our friends have all decried
Our petulance, but they’ve all sighed
“I guess we can’t hold back the tide
We’d be committing suicide!”
They figure it’s best not to chide
So they just shrug and go inside
They give up and they all decide
To give us a berth that is wide
What else to do but get pie-eyed?
They make Martinis that are dried
Because vermouth is not allied
With gin; “Vermouth’s insecticide!”
Is what they will often have cried
And sometimes they’ve even “Oh my!”’d
They will drink tea, long as it’s chai’d
They won’t touch food that has been fried
Not even if their mouths were pried. . .

I think this song has hit its stride--
More lines than the number in ides.
It’s time for me to have bye-bye’d. . .
No more I’ll
Haunt you, won’t haunt you,
This song grew so bad.
Runs on this song, whew!