It sparkled and glinted all snug in my cave,
The treasure I took, they couldn’t save.
From Fairies in the north and Gnomes in the south,
they couldn’t protect themselves from the fire in my mouth.
They shot arrows at me after I’d made my haul,
but my hide was too thick, they didn’t pierce it at all.
The treasure lay scattered about the floor,
until my cavern just couldn’t hold any more.
Don’t ever breakdance in the nude;
the notion might seem somewhat crude,
but I know a guy
who gave it a try
and now he is rather subdued.
Don’t ever make love in a swamp;
it doesn’t have adequate pomp.
And after a while,
an old crocodile
might jump on you, longing to chomp.
Don’t ever lose track of your nose,
your ears or your hands or your toes.
For when winter starts,
you’ll need all these parts
to ensure you’re thoroughly froze.
Don’t ever wed blondes or brunettes,
though I’ve heard they make good house pets.
In a marriage bed,
you want a redhead
whose father can pay off your debts.
Don’t ever play Russian roulette
at the urge of a dare or a bet,
’cause once you’ve said, “Please!”
and given a squeeze,
you might find that your pants are wet.
Don’t ever believe what you hear;
I’ve never known an honest ear.
All tongues like to talk,
as feet like to walk,
but I don’t find them too sincere.
Don’t ever give too much advice –
settle for once or for twice.
If you must advise,
a word to the wise:
it’s best to be clear and concise.
Comments are closed.