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A tinker, a thinker, a sphincter and a duck.
One looks to the other. Says, “shit we’re outta luck”
The tinker hit the sphincter, it erupted and gave shout.
The thinker got to thinking, fell asleep and laid about.
Finally the duck did say, “that tinker was a quack.
She dug her finger down inside, deep into my crack.”
So. The thinker with a sphincter, turned out to be a fowl.
The tinker with the finger well… she’s stuck cleaning now.
Twere my name SpringChicken, I’d jump off a bridge. To be doomed to a season, three months in a fridge.
Seems only a life, meant for the dumbfounded. His last chromosome is likely compounded.
He flits and he floats as he hurls his tongue. But his words like his wit, are filled with but dung.
If his mother were here, Id give her a hump. Since he’s likely abandoned, I’ll just take a dump…
on his chest..