You're a strange one, Mr. Fluke.
You really
do like GWAR.
You're also known as Codfish,
You thrill to drive you car.
Mr. Fluke ....
You're a tough competer Who likes to raise the bar.
You're a pitcher, Mr. Fluke.
Your throws
can hit the chair.
Your brain is full of sliders,
You've got a scary glare.
Mr. Fluke .....
I wouldn't temp you, with even
the slightest, least risky dare.
You're a fielder, Mr. Fluke.
You always scale the wall.
You have the
best reflexes,
You you never drop the ball.
Mr. Fluke ....
Given the choice between drop or bobble The ball will never fall.
You're a player, Mr. Fluke.
You whistle like the finches.
Your
idol is Brett Favre,
You give the girl's all pinches.
Mr. Fluke ....
The three words that best describe you, are, and I quote: "Missing. Two.
Inches."
You're a hitter, Mr. Fluke.
You really go on tears.
You
hit a cell phone homer,
You've got satellite dish ears.
Mr. Fluke ....
Your attempt at owning the home run record was an ill-fated but inspiring dream overflowing with the most interesting assortment of collected anecdotes imaginable, blended up in mended up spots.
You intrigue me, Mr. Fluke.
Godsmack tatoo on your back.
You're
a Never Ending Story,
Who lasts one minute in the sack.
Mr. Fluke ....
You're a long-legged, short-tempered and white bro who kicked our
ass.
