Papa, might we hear witch Beyoncé's “Full-Grown Woman” song?
It's late, the phone booths are broke & common-core math is wrong
While Liz queen's high on Miller life that's the Jack Daniel's of gin,
her rotting, Goyish kop's stuffed with ***** sea's canned tuna in tin
& afflicts the bumps of 2 knees, the rear of 1 calf plus a lateral shin
what hobbles acquaintances, hangers-on, unchallenged kith and kin
who romp with Parisienne pikes in defiance of hourly Earthen spin,
slaving for grubs, shaving with mud, pricking boiled *** with a pin
God punishes the demerits of evil, in pop parlance it's known as sin
among dipsomaniacs who find solace in games sober folk can't win
with Richard Burton's *****-hard hurtin' the keenest fish part's a fin
as long as chokes & wheezes World War 2 jingoist crone Vera Lynn
who fitfully forked it over faithlessly to *****-banging Errol Flynn
when gonorrheal precautions before penicillin remained unforgiven
as sailors were hard-scrabble calloused & unbelievably ****-driven
to the extreme of ****** big-boobed teens causing a hue and cry din
from a he-man who pushed off a ledge his homosexy Siamese twin
whose lard-*** detracted from the beauty of his physique when thin
prompting one heart-felt smile to degenerate into one heartless grin
that, like a foot in a meat grinder, loses functionality with each spin
enough to drown an Oscar fish in a moldy tank with a bitten-off bin
along with a burlap sack sacking Kitty-Kitty's beyond-C.P.R. kitten
with no loftier a mortal depth than dug by H.G. Wells' mole people,
I open gaily the homosexual-loving church by wrecking the steeple
as diving off  a dung heap half pooped pops an unground, deep pill
that's more tranquilizing than barbituric acid at keeping a creep still
while claiming bankruptcy so as to stiff a shepherd of my sheep bill
I suffer strange spells of vomiting and tiredness when terminally ill
While it is safer breathing under the water water through a fish gill,
I need to uplift my **** before straining through my balaena sea krill