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DATE TO REMEMBER |
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She looked as sweet as butterscotch, With feathers cross her butt, And as I went to turn that page, I got a paper cut. I dropped my date upon the floor, And bent to get her back, And when I did I think I strained, My sacroiliac. The next time you get frisky, And it's time to choose a date, Heed this simple warning, And get one you can inflate. Poems Without a Net Series Tim: butterscotch |
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