THE PLUM SONG OF MICHAEL

Before church choir, Michael's constipation, needed fine tuning,

He went to his larder, where he kept dried plums for bowel pruning,

After his toilet, Mike took a shower,

Where Michael practiced, his vocal power,

At church, Mike's back end got dark and wet, while Mike was solo crooning. 

THE ART CRITICISM OF BIRDS

Villagers made my likeness, a statue, and they set it outside,

That was a such fantastic honor, a stimulus for my pride,

The birds came forward day one,

Left their white drippings, a ton,

That started my enemies laughing; in the next village I hide.

A WITCH TURNED ME

A witch turned me into a turtle, not nice,

I did nothing to him, except the crab lice,

But I'm not to blame,

For his scratches of shame,

I got them from my friends, the mice.