A poem in which each line’s ending is a truncated word
I’ve never had a pretty bod
And so I visited the doc’s
And asked him for a body mod
To make me fit the norm approx.
My genes were handed down from ma
Who, sadly, was no beauty ad,
I’d much prefer to look like pa:
Refined in spite of being trad.
The doc said, ‘I’ll refer you Ron,
And send you to the ‘fix-it’ lab.’
I hoped it wouldn’t be a con
And even dreamt I’d turn out fab.
The end result was hardly brill
As witnessed by the surgeon’s memo:
‘Couldn’t make him look a mill.
Best not use him as a demo!’
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