Sometimes I scarf, sand dabs, crabs from the sea;
I just love this briny, salty fare.
I ate some oysters; they were a huge size,
But there was some red tide lurking in there.
Now with poisonous slime
I'm chunderful, chunderful,
It's so chunderful, this muck.

I get myself up on top of the bowl,
Getting ready for the chum to fly.
I've got my finger--in fact, my whole arm--
Down my throat, but heaves are completely dry.
Nothing comes up but air;
There's no fare that's chummerful.
I need to chunder my lunch.

I had had some onion rings on the side;
They'd been cooked in transfat made from bones.
Under better circumstances I love
Golden brown rings that are heavy as stone.
To the medicine shelf
I go and I chug my fill
Of chunder-inducing punch.

That ipecac is swell,
It's chunderful; chum that illed. . .
Chunder spills; I lose my lunch.