Gorbachev’s birthmark came to me last night,
Spouting on about peas
And the way that cars are right.
It came into my bedroom
Just after I lost light,
What a funny, bunny Christmas it did have.
Gorbachev’s cankles cried CRIKEY in my sleep
They seemed to be upset about
The way my lord she keep.
It was nothing that the carpet sang
For the corners were too steep.
What a whizzy, whozzy wibble wobble do.
Gorbachev is funny, his mother told him so.
She kept a little diary
From the moment he did grow.
He only read it thirteen times,
But, couldn’t let her know.
What a wonky way to waffle kitchen shoes.