Snapple, Snapple, melting quick
In the Square of flavoured slick,
What infernal hand or eye
Could krush thy fruit confection’ry?
In what massive kinda Apple
Drips the juices of thy Snapple?
In what vein flows your sweet blood?
What the tongue dare lick the crud?
And what gizmo and what kit
Could we persuade to blow up shit?
And when thy juice began to rush,
What dread gloop and what dread mush?
What the monster? What the truck?
What New Yorkers shouting “fuck”?
What lame freezer? What vile heat
Gave poor commuters sticky feet?
When the sun has sprung its trap
And doused Manhattan in this crap
Did He grin His work to see?
Did He who krushes lambs krush thee?
Snapple, Snapple, melty plop
Drenching fireman, drenching cop,
Even if a planet blew up,
Could it match your PR screw-up?
(... I apologise. Partly to Blake, partly to the world at large.)
| Year | Number of comments posted |
|---|---|
| 2005 | 2 |
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