Dear Muffin (A.K.A. Pastry Puff McMuff),

Jazz class? You obviously meant Jazzercise—

You’re the tight clothes type who gets a rise

From sweat rolling down the thighs of guys.

Your words are grassy like cow pies

They’re easily mowed down to size

And plopped out of holes for flies.

There’s no surprise

Your boring rhymes coincide with lies

While I store atomic tides inside lines for supplies—

With more than enough energy

To sa’more an enemy

Inevitably

I’ve got that championship pedigree

You are dead to me

Your jealousy desperately

Needs someone else to envy.

This is your ending, it’s happening quickly

I couldn’t imagine you taggin’

Up another ficly

But so be it

If I have to beat you cyclically

I’ll continue to play, coach, and referee it.

Oh YeeeAAEEaaaEEaHHHHhhhhHHHh