There's a place on Mars/Where the ladies smoke cigars
Every puff they take/Is enough to kill a snake
When the snake is dead/They plant roses in its head
When the roses die/They put diamonds in its eye 
When the diamonds crack/They put mustard down its back
When the mustard dries/It attracts the Martian flies
When the flies get stomped/It becomes a Martian prompt
When the prompt gets writ/Then the Martians have a fit
When the fit is tight/Martian snakes begin to bite
If they bite your face/You become a Martian case
But your case won't close/Till your poems decompose