An obsessive young lady named Fong
Would constantly bang on a gong;
Said her doctor, “I find
You’ve an unbalanced mind—
You should strive for more ding and less dong.”
In the village of Jingamafloo,
They don’t look at the world like we do:
When a gentleman dies
His dear wife shouts, “Surprise!
Now we’ll all get a little more stew.”
How to spell the potato has tried
Many minds, sometimes mine, I’ll confide.
Though it might have an eye,
There’s no E – don’t ask why!
Not until it’s been baked, boiled or fried.
If a thought that’s been thought has been “thunk”
Have those dreams that we’ve sought all been “sunk”?
Should “we ought” be “we unk”?
Can what’s fought be what’s “funk”?
And those stocks that we bought, were they “bunk”?
There once was a yogi who said,
“I can see I should never have wed:
Our carnal relations
Only cause lamentations—
I suspect it’s the nails in the bed.”
Assisting a suicide’s fate
Is a practice all faiths seem to hate:
Is God, the Creator,
Some prickly Head Waiter,
Who freaks if you send back your plate?
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