'Ello dear mates! I woke up this morning after a 2 day LSD binge and discovered that words had been tattooed all over me legs. Turns out it wasn't a real tattoo, just blood scribbled around in a manner so as to form words. Whose blood it was I couldn't tell you, though it tasted like Maude the Doper's, and I truly hope to high heaven that is not the case because that woman has more diseases than South Africa!
Well, Ole Quint had nothing else to do this morning, so he decided to spend the better part of the 8 o'clock hour transcribing the message on a dirty Wendy's napkin his good friend Jerry Blue Balls had been using to soak up a pussy wound. This, my dear friends, is what I discovered tattooed on me leg upon waking this morning:
I call it "Shoelaces McGee"...
I once knew a man,
He went by the name of Shoelaces McGee.
Ole Shoelaces played the banjo,
better then any fool you ever did see.
Well, Shoelaces had his vices,
as men are wont to do.
He could drink fellas under the table,
with a cheek chock full of chew.
On his chest he wore suspenders,
big red ones he'd often jerk.
He'd yank them out like rubber bands,
and they would smack him while he smirked.
All the ladies loved Shoelaces,
and the men they liked him fine,
he sure was a charmin' gentleman,
so long as he abstained from drinking wine.
But if those bubbles kissed his blood,
his mind would start to race.
All reasoning would soon depart.
He'd spit right in your face!
The girls would run for shelter,
And the guys would try to hide.
While he would break out all the windows,
Just to take a piss outside.
The tables they'd get tossed,
while he’d be gunning down the lamps.
He'd run streaking up and down the street,
Until he'd fall from crippling cramps.
His antics would be many,
And last throughout the night.
Sure 'laces might pass out,
but he'd still hold his bottle tight.
And there'd be much anticipation,
as he opened up his eyes.
The townsfolk would be gathered round,
Despite a stench that made them cry.
With every move that he did make,
The girls would give a start.
But it wouldn't bother 'laces,
Who'd often treat them to a fart.
And then he'd stand and smile,
Which would often set things right,
Cause who could resist ole Shoelaces
As he exclaimed, ''Boys, what a night!''
Ole Quint's a fantastic writer of poetry, but he doesn't hold a candle to a Quint fully saturated with LSD and roofies!
