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Since the ballroom has become shamefully underused, I thought I'd dig up a rhyme I found in my highschool diary:

Oh bed, my bed
There are no words that can be said
Nor written, to express thy beauty.
Thy softness and thy warm embrace
Thy spread made of the finest lace
Thou always dost thy duty.
Inside thee, I feel thy love,
Thy pain, as I lie on my side
My dreams, as I take the ride,
Thou art my private cave.

'Thee would I give it
though it were gold
or either silver
I would give it.'

PAUL: Ooh! Simply lovely! I must work these into a song someday!
RINGO: Shall I give it a go?
GEORGE: Bloody fantastic. Ringo's going to bless us with his song-writing.
JOHN: Lay off, George. Ringo's got his good points. Give it a go, old chum.
RINGO: *Ahem*

Twinkle, twinkle, little mouse,
There was once a lovely house,
We took a trip beyond the sea,
And then there was some time for tea.

PAUL: Bravo!
GEORGE: I'm speechless.
RINGO: So you liked it?
GEORGE: I didn't say that.

I saw your eyes and was enchanted
Your perfect abs still haunt my dreams
Because of this I stupidly ranted
When you gave me that look of dreams
I have trouble rhyming, so it seems
As the sunset in the distance gleems
The lonely blackbird softly chanted

PAUL: Isn't that one of ours?
JOHN: Must be yours. I don't write songs about abs.
PAUL: But we do write songs about blackbirds, don't we?
JOHN: Indeed. It must be ours. Bravo!
PAUL: Beautiful poem! Simply beautiful!

Nom nom nom
Nom nom
Nom nom nom
Nom nom nom nom!

Cookie Monster synes å snakke tydelig.

In the quiet ballroom
the maiden is alone
dancing to her heart's content
because nobody's watching

yet her mind covered with gloom
for everybody else has gone
no soul to which her spirit sent
no one to share her swatching