Oh, bonnie lass, 'tis Nunkies, Nunkies calling
His addicts all to gather at his shrine
At which in drooling meltdown you'll be falling,
And at the Jewelled Peach you'll surely dine.
But should you fail to answer to his calling
His wrath is strong, his judgment near divine:
Within his arms, you'll suffer one last mauling
As on your neck, his fangs prepare to dine...
Yet should you harken to his siren beckon
And hasten to appear before the Shrine
The glories of his worship you'll soon reckon:
Designer clothes, closets of shoes, and trappings fine.
