My Mummy
Calls me, dear.
They call me Mr. Muscles, I can pull up a tree, Pull it up by the roots, And break it, over my knee.
I have an aunt, who likes to chant, And decant Irish whisky, She snorts a little more for sport, She says it makes her frisky.
I reckon that’s a risky sport, And I practice moderation, I can lift up my sister Sue, I’m the envy of the nation.
When I’m done with lifting, I run miles for fun, I can pulverize a potato, With my ginormous thumb.
I eat chips, then with my lips, I suck the salt and sauce, I buy hot dogs from catalogues, With mustard too of course.
I lie for hours in the sun, And lie about my age, I’m older than Methuselah, I’m a venerable sage.
I’ve written books, and slept with cooks, No names good etiquette, I fiddle, and I dance a bit, My style is delicate.
Yes, I am Mr Muscles, Boys cringe when I appear, Girls are cool and often drool, And my mummy calls me, dear.
©
David Rudder 2023
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