I'm an awful awful song writer.

You asked me to prepare something special,

So I wonder how’d this fare with you.

Here I go writing this song,

At four thirty,

My birthday morn’.

You are in my dreams when I sleep,

When I’m awake I am your creep.

Radio playing in my head,

Oh you’re the girl I’d love to hate,

I’m kidding (whispered).

Well I’m at your beck and call,

That pretty face, her perfect soul,

Always leave me begging for more,

The one who defied all of nature’s laws

Never caught out in the cold.

Chorus:

Ain’t she something?

Just when I thought God left us all,

She appeared,

Held me close til the fog cleared.

Ain’t she something?

She threatens me with Panic!,

But darlin’ I won’t play that game.

I’d rather take you out for a picnic,

On a sunny afternoon,

Find some silly song to croon.

Please pardon my writing skills,

But these words are merely words,

And she’s so much more.

My rhyming's pretty awful. I got to start reading more books by Dr. Seuss to gather inspiration.

I live in a box,

I look like a fox,

Why are you blue,

Little boy blue.

HA! Who said you can't rhyme blue with blue.