Tom Bell Poet Burlesque

Sort'A

Just like your aorta
Carries blood,
Well It really sort'a ought'a
Or the shoes you bought,
Are sort'a tight,
Soon blisters will ignite,
Sort'a painful it just might,
Keep you up all night,
And when the mouse
dashes across the floor,
And you sort'a run for 
the door,
And your ad-lib scat singing
Sort'a thought was scatology
Maybe we ought'a sort'a sort'a

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