Hey, no worries--I have lied, too.
I've done it many times before.
Girl with her furred heap up in tangled strands
Pinned into a bun; she's from Arctic lands.
I know you must sure think to right I fawn
To choose one with big hair with a mind that's all but gone.

But dimwit, my dimwit, my dimwit,
Compos mentis, non.
D'oh! dimwit, my dimwit, my dimwit. . .
Con those Pentecost's.

She will say she's a pit bull snarlin',
With some lipstick plied on moue.
Ah, but that canis is inbred and will munch
On kids and helpless grannies
And make their bones go crunch,
Livin' not for long
With limbs in jaw vise.
Image from a fool
Whose head is full of ice.

But dimwit, my dimwit, my dimwit
Has got a hold on
Those dimwits, blind dimwits, blind dimwits. . .
Got 'em wholly conned.

Con's the game, and I will fawn,
Tongue reached out. . .recall, I kissed Jer's
Butt to help attain the prize
But that rim-lip was just hooey,
Like my choice of lipsticked "sooey!"

'cause dimwit, my dimwit, my dimwit
Has got a hold on
Those dimwits, blind dimwits, blind dimwits. . .
Got the "holies" conned.