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As the fiery depths of the underworld enclose me in this awful place, I sit and play my oboe.
Oboe, oboe, where did you go-go. I went away and my oboe went a-go-go.
And the roses were red and the violets were blue, as the NYC sewers were flowing with poo.
Oh how I envy you, the poo-er of that poo. That lovely poo that was in your mom's shoe.
And the Church bells wouldn't ring, the tones were all askew.
Because of my oboe, which was found in her shoe.
The very shoe in which you put the poo. Yes, your mother's poo. No, wait, you're mother's shoe.
Wait! You're poo was in the shoe; not my oboe, you poo.
It was your poo. How do you kiss her at night, when you're pooing in her shoe.
I couldn't kiss my mother at night if I knew I poo in her shoe.
Now your mom's shoe is filled with your poo.
Now whatchu gonna do? Does it involve oboes or your mother's shoe?