Loathsome Lyle, Croc o' Guile.
He lurks behind my firewood pile.
Not quite the same as other crocs,
A pillowy bit in thigh-high socks.
He munches mice and voles and rats,
Tubby old toads, incautious cats.
But now and again behind that pile,
Lyle will take a taste of... Lyle.
I know it hurts, he's told me so.
And I know his bite, where each tooth goes.
But "See what they've done!" poor Lyle cries.
"Steel yourself, and turn your eyes
To the pain they've caused my fragile soul!"
He bites his lip, then, just for show,
Feigns a swoon. (Believe what you hear.
You just can't trust those crocodile tears. )
Loathsome Lyle, Croc o' Guile.
He lurks behind my firewood pile.
With each excuse for self-abuse,
I long the more for croc-skin shoes.
Thenk yew.


