John Holmes
John Holmes is dead, but I have heard it said,
He used to walk the nude beach getting tanned,
He'd shoot the crowd a moon,
Then amble 'cross each dune,
Behind him leaving three tracks in the sand.
Poor John is dead, a casket for his bed,
But rigor mortis settled in his hose,
In the lid we'll bore a hole,
And through it thread his pole,
Or else we'll never get the danged thing closed.
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