I’ve got some rhymes I gotta get out.
Mom’s got the measles, Dad’s got gout.
I like my gold, 24 carat please.
But get me my inhaler, I’m starting to wheeze.
Driving my ‘Cedes down the city streets.
My seats are leather, my pants got pleats.
Take my picture now, mister photog.
Maybe in some cranberries, chillin’ in the bog.
Bop bop bodda bodda bop. Chaka Khan.