You be the kiss
I’ll be the lips
You be the broccoli
I’ll be the chips.
I’ll be your sensation:
The beauty you eyed;
You be the action
Steamed, boiled or fried.
You be my razor
I’ll be your face
You be my starting gun
I’ll be your race.
I’ll give you a distance
But my wrinkles may trouble
You can set me going
And shave off my stubble.
You be my ocean
I’ll be your peach
You be my peach factory
I’ll be your peach
You can sort me and slice me
In the seas, I’ll confide.
I’ll fit into your can
I’ll cushion your tide.
You be my evil mastermind
I’ll be your cat
You by my Ian Botham
I’ll be your bat.
I’ll purr at your plans
And help you hit fours
You can spoil me with linseed
And pamper my paws.
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