A Congragulation

A Congragulation
A poem by Andrew Goodyear.

To you I must congragulate,
I like the way you regulate
your floor,
You stupid whore!
You are on a steep plateau,
Your 'e's all look like 'rho's.
You just don't have the dough,
To hire wrestling pros.
I'll take your newly-designed hat
And show it to the doors,
The only thing you are good at,
Is regulating floors.

It must be said,
That without you,
My floors are dead,
Their time is through,
With nobody to regulate,
They only can deplete,
That could never be so great,
Nowhere to put our feet!

When I was so young and small,
Before I knew of crime,
I was never very tall,
For all I ate was Thyme.
Now I have a bigger dish,
To set myself ablaze,
Nowadays I oft' eat fish,
And often steamed with maize.
On one of those days in my youth,
When I was merely four,
I lost grip of my thyme, in truth,
And dropped it on the floor.
'Tis not a problem', cried the maid,
'Tis not a messy platter,'
And, though the plate is now destroyed,
It really does not matter.

'Back in this much simpler era,
When life had no true sores,
We didn't need a slut named Vera
To regulate the floors.

But now we do,
So I am am glad,
That we have you,
Congragulations.