I wish I were your bathroom mirror, oh apple of my eye
For then each morn at crack of dawn, your beauty I could spy
To look upon your lovely smile while on your teeth you brush
And know for sure I’d turn away ’til toilet you did flush
But now I see why it couldn’t be, my precious buttercup
For when your robe did hit the floor . . .
I’d go to pieces that’s for sure . . .
And bad I’d feel if you were stuck . . .
with seven years of dreadful luck ! ! !