We have already established that I cannot do poetry, so here's another example:
“I am Sam, Sam Spade I am
Now with what can I help you ma’am?
Are you in a sort of jam?
Are you running – on the lam?
Are you victim of a scam?
Mistress of Jean Claude Van Damme?
Some cruel flimflam?
Now with what can I help you ma’am?”
My client was a strawberry blonde
A colouring of which I’m fond
“Oh Sam I Am, I am in trouble
You must help me at the double”
“I can help you out of trouble,
I can help you at the double
You need a hit?
You’re in deep shit?
I would not, could not, will not quit.”
“My husband’s dead
His name was Fred
I found him in his garden shed
Out of his head
Poor Fred was dead, “So, was he shot?”
“No Sam I Am – shot was he not
Someone had hit him, with a pot.
On his head - a tender spot.
A swat, that spot, his blood did clot.
And now he is starting to rot."
The dame was stacked
But also cracked,
Grief she lacked
She'd had him whacked
And now she wanted me to act
As an accessory after the fact.
"Lady, not for any price.
No need to think twice.
To be concise,
You bashed and smashed, quite unabashed
Thumped him, lumped and then dumped him.
You're mad, you're bad, you make me sad.
Now out of here daddle-skedad."
I'm sooooooooooo sorry. I should be shot for that.