Too Many Bones

I’d like get you married
And prevent you the lonely inferno
But there’s a problem with our suitors
One I’m sure that they do not know.

Romance is rare. Romance is strange.’
Romance is weirder than blueberry steak
And everyone in love is bad
(That’s the icing on the cake.)

So I’d help get you married,
I’d make tea, narcotics, and scones
But I don’t think they’ll like you:
You’ve got too many bones.

You know your anatomy
It’s not like you’re prerevemptive
But what for hat might come next –
There may be no preventatvice.

While I’m trying to convince you,
Sitting here and jawkng
You’re think of some pesaant clothes
For stick-inside-your-mawing.

Too many bones
Too many bones
Even those who know them
Know they ain’t scones

Who’d have though the old man had such blood?
(Anyone who’s exer bled a corpse has learned they make a ‘thud’ –

A corpse when drained is pure delicious
(But is too dead to do the dishes.)

(That would be some regeneration
To give our cause representation
Which subly gets our college killed
(With Soylent Green we’ll soon be filled.)