Here Be Sprouts
On the old treasure map, brown like a paper sack,
Bright colors laid out the dangers of the seas,
Treasures on islands with skulls and shark fins,
And a hand pointing to the edge: Here be sprouts.
Like the seven seas there are seven colors,
But you will find no green.
The green, it seems, was eaten by the dog,
Though never was seen any green in its teeth.
You can trust the young pirate, the owner of the map,
He would not tell a fib about crayons.
How could you not trust that innocent look,
With its big eyes and wide, verdant smile?
You gotta pick the right guy to do the job.
If gibberish is outlawed, only outlaws will kitty canoe bongo.
Go out now and vote for LibertyBob.