He tried the sandman’s stones and thought he’d conquer the world.
Like a short shot added,
But, unlike a whiskey stone,
He never took the tone.
She tried the love bird’s tone
But sounded like a gloom trombone,
And unlike the ring of Victorian crystal,
She merely was the Boatswain’s call.
And when he took the whistle,
She was through her troubles and blew out the candle.
He looked up and could only see her window sill,
Then he knew the song been done to the thistles
Yet again unlike a whiskey stone,
He was not and she was not worth the whiskey,
And sad creatures like Un’s greatest missile,
Landed on an empty isle.