I am not carrying a three-headed book,
Nor am I with a three-fingered crook,
And sure I know many places to imbibe in,
but there does not be the psylocybin;

Bitters I've spilled and spoilt many a garment,
and sometimes I'm sure my hand is a varmint,
though four times I may have felt narwahls,
I do stop groping when my mommy calls,

also!

Of purple scrimpatches I have no plethora,
though I do possess one Chinese menorah,
which I filter through my brain like coffee
a feeling, quite frankly, that's not always comfy,

so instead I buy beer for a ruble a day,
a cost that is 'double-vay-uh-double-vay'
in French a language that is spoken by fries,
and curious persons with Eiffel Towers for eyes

who leap from my microwave each night with a holler,
"Long live your Rod, for ever' Shag's more taller!"
And though these persons are not quite quotable,
They deserve the attention when their words are notable;

So I'll wrap up this story I began to regale,
(before your interest completely sets sail),
of a three-headed book not in my possession,
along a winding path of Seussian digression.

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