There once was a man from Nantucket
with a fly in his soup in a bucket.
His friends, Joe and Lars,
they would walk into bars,
but our Nantucket man would just duck it.
“Knock knock!” “Who is there?” “It’s a chicken.”
“Chicken who? You look torn and griefstricken.
Why’d you cross the long road
to my humble abode?”
“Cause I heard that your lightbulbs need picking.”
At the doctor my throat was so scratchy
and my hair was so brittle and patchy.
“There’s no need to be down
with the circus in town!”
“But doctor, I am Pagliacci.”
Three holy men’s gambling addiction
made them bet on a bear’s benediction.
“Your faiths had the goods,”
said the pope in the woods,
“but I shouldn’t’ve tried crucifixion.”
On a train rolling past Mt McLaughie,
a logician once tried to rip off me.
I said “Sheep here are black.”
But he had a comeback:
“I like sheep just the way I like coffee.”