I want me some Norwegian curling pants,
‘Cuz then I could go for the gold.
They got room to do the M.C. Hammer dance,
I got moves that never get old.
I love the argyle of white, blue, and red,
And fame from using a broom.
I’ll let my ancestry go to my head,
And wear them from Oslo to Khartoum.*
With those pants, I could dress like a king
And no one would notice my mole.
The dry cleaner would always know they’re my thing,
And my wife says they’d be great birth control.
* “Khartoum”? Really? You don’t think you could have come up with a more artificial rhyme than that, TL?