The glassy eyes on the burning hill,
Don't make a flame, but make a chill.
And on the tongues, they taste so well,
But can they really, truly smell,
The daffodils, tulips and roses,
Oh wait, that job is for the noses.
Two parallel rotund discs of doom,
Fill with air and take in the fume,
And open the door for the teeth and lips,
Followed by legs and the **** Ms. hips.
The feet on the floor can't support anymore,
The knees and the ankles, but that's what they're for.
The line on your thighs that's all filled with lies,
With flesh and with pleasure, so that is the prize.