Cocteau

The last thing Jacques Cocteau smelled

was freshly mown grass;

he'dn't known he'd

die on a golf course.

But I did.

Because I killed him.

Lordy!

Lordy took a stroll on Tues

'round piccadilly square.

Thrice he saw the creepling man,

and twice he didn't care.

But on the third he stopped,

(his passions all aflame).

For there there stood the creepling man

flashing all his shame.

Lordy took a sneakling peek

at the absent trouser-door.

I say it only sneakling

'cause he promptly hit the floor.

The street-performing robot

had whizzed and buzzed about.

When shame flashed at his metal face,

his buzz became a shout!

"Get him!" Cried the Bobbies.

My eyes!" Cried the Fruit.

"Can no one save our ruined souls

from this exhibitionary brute?!"

Up arose good Lordy

from his shame-inducéd trance.

Sore but not downtrodden,

he started his advance.

The creepling saw him coming!

They traded blow for blow!

"He knows my every move so well!

This shame-exposing foe..."

All the gods were watching.

The crowd discharged their jeers.

Lordy'd never fought like this

in all his earthly years!

The creepling stood there dangling.

Lordy'd had enough!

"Let's end this once for all!" he yelled,

"Show me your stuff!"

The creepling man pulled off his skin.

T'was a sight like none no other!

'Fore Lordy stood a maiden fair.

And that's how he met your mother.