A/N: Ladies and gentlemen I present- horrible poetry. This is my attempt to battle writer's block. Clearly I'm never going to be a poet. Clearly.
Musings
One fine day,
on a lovely morn' in may
Sat a satyr playing the lute,
because he couldn't play the flute
By a nice big chocolate fountain,
right beside a sugar mountain
And watched his nymph play in the water
right beside his living quarter
He scratched his beard, said what the hell,
was that lovely sounding bell?
As he could not figure out the mystery,
he decided to shake the nymph out of her reverie
Jumped into the splashing water,
snatched the nymph into his quarter
And held and kissed her through the night,
as well as was his might
However, the lovely sounding bell,
wouldn't stop- what the hell?
As it turned out it was the alarm,
and Grissom had slept on his arm
As he awoke next to Sara,
singing loudly with Irene Carra
He groaned and grinned and shook his head
and pulled her right back down to bed
To hold her there until the morn',
oh my god we are forlorn
The End, thank god.