On his birthday he drank some sauce, and happy he was with no loss.
His mother said at twelve exact, ‘twenty seven you are, a fact.’
And then a call he came across; his girl to him said, ‘Come across!’
What he then did you might know of, to girl’s he soon went with a cross.
To her he said, ‘You are my boss.’
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The girl first smiled, went minutes by; she told him then, ‘You be my guy.’
No bounds knew joy, on him light dawned; What he said next was quite profound:
‘My darling you are; let me not cry; but truth be told: I am a spy.’
Shocked she was then, no noise or sound; what claim he’d made on her compound!
Lickety-split both sadly frowned.
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That she was mad the girl then said; thus making him get out of bed.
She slapped him tight, hit him quite hard; said she loud clear ‘You are a retard.’
‘Take from me that morrow am dead,’ he said and went, ‘I don’t pretend.’
The girl moved far, thus no regard; only he knew how he’d been guard.’
Door soon opened and stood this bard.