“That big glob of gooey yellow funk
That smells so weird that funky junk,
Like monsters with big, big smelly eyes
And tentacles that wrap around giant flies,
With muscles bulging out of yellow torsos,
Hardened and tied up with wooden bows,
Yet sitting still as not yet to move,
Looking at me within the groove.
How can I cut through all the stiffly funk,
Like a tree growing from a metal stump,
That petrified slime that stood its ground,
Its wooden heart that’s so tightly wound?
With my saw I shall cut through the mustard.
I shall cover it with faith and gooey lard.
Never shall it rise again to look at me,
So here I go with my guarantee.
Ha– ha, I did it with my stalwart hands.
The mustard’s cut as the evidence stands.
You said I couldn’t cut the mustard, coach.
But as you can see, I did it with ease.
So now I’m fit to play on the team.
How is that for what I did?”

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