Strussel, dosseldorf cannon.

How's it hanging in the street

The blight of Sir Shannon.

Graduating the pills, inserting he needle

Everything looks gray

Aside from the jeedle.

Guess the gas house, for one will say

"Tis the naught of day, for thee shall play"

Grab the night by the tail and shove it to the mune

For April is of days, and b00b back in the saddle.

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