The world is blue,
the world is flat,
so you live in a cabin with a Siamese cat,
and it's rough, really tough:
it's warmer in the local laundromat.
You'd like a nice car,
you'd love a nice house
but you spent all your money on a talking mouse,
that will bite and has mites,
and cannot stand the sight of your new spouse.
You're a fraud,
and he knows:
he notes those loving times when your nose glows.
Then you fall down, like a clown,
wrapped in a blanket made of winter snows.
The bank is big,
the bank is hard:
they will never issue you a golden credit card.
For that bank, to be frank,
has invested
all your loot in Russian lard.
Scientists seek
and then they find:
their prediction is the end of mankind,
and is it true that you knew,
before your latest contract was even signed?