Your tweeting-parts thrill makes you cheap.
You lie and cry, and try to keep
Your seat in House your whole life through.
Your tweeted parts still smell (john flue). [1]

When peers come frown, you bawl in vain.
You've lost your sound and fall in shame.
You'd stalk some 'ore, then say, "I do.",
Your tweeted parts compelling you.

Your tweeted parts, on-line entree,
Enslave and govern you today.
The time will come when they'll be through.
Your sweet'ning parts won't swell on cue.

When beers [2] come down, you'll stall in pain.
You'll cross and pound the wall [3] till lame.
You'll walk the floor, and pray like Jew. [4]
Your fleeting parts ring knell for you.

Your greeting part is "gone to hell." Mon Dieu!