My belle yells in the kitchen:
"Your cerebellum missin'?
Culinary blight
I'm smellin' tonight—
Wokkin' blintzes, winter squash, and lamb?!"

I've also made a stewed bird—
Turns out it was her bluebird
That sang a sweet song,
While she sang along.
Warbling in her little, lovely hand.

I have breaded and deep-fried a snowball
That's turning a shade of arson brown.
Will I stay married?
'Twill be a close call,
Because she's getting ready to leave town.

Should have turned down the fryer—
It set the house on fire.
The claims have been made,
We wait to get paid
Balking, the skinflint insurance man.

He makes us an offer, but it's lowball,
Causing us to moan and bitch and frown.
So my wife kicks him square in the low ball,
And then the prick is writhing on the ground.

Then she says she'll be drilling
His head unless he's willing
To give us full pay.
He does, and next day:
Wokkin' blintzes, winter squash, and lamb.