And all I had to save myself were feline fetuses named Fi.
For I was up at midnight learning ways to die,
Instead of studying my janitorial coursework and trying not to cry.
If I could start my life over, if I was no longer twenty-three,
Perhaps I'd be a butterfly or perhaps a bumblebee.
Perhaps I'd fly above you and wonder what you'd think,
When you see me flutter-by, whilst rolling round your drink,
Between your thick and greasy pudding fingers,
The ones that used to stink.
The ones that touched up all the mingers, and twiddled at their pink.
Would your sausage fingers grasp away at my thorax?
Or would you get out the dusting gun and fill it with borax?
My love for you is like a glue, squeezed from a tissue, after coming down from flu and dying lonely on the loo, whilst pushing out a poo, shaped just like you.
Who knew, who knew, you slew me with your spew,
I was just cuckoo, for you, *coo coo*, my one, my true, my lovey dovey jebby-doo.