Twenty forth of seven

Twenty forth of seven,

heaven’s the land of plenty.

Be it feet or teeth,

jowl or bowel,

Our bodies are for loving,

touching our very soul.


Sure the mind,

works its will,

but its never cool,

to be a dill.


Nice in lamb,

alright in beef,

but don’t we hate it,

when its stuck in teeth.


So kiss on out,

kiss on up,

just dont kiss,

to feather your cup.


Pushing tonge,

against our teeth,

might straighten them up,

and relieve the grief.


postures up,

postures down,

dont make a sitting,

as twenty four corrupted our sound.


Round and round,

the rosary bush,

ryhming for no reason is,

so much as hush hush hush.



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