Michael J. Fox called . . . he wants his . . . back

Your eighties truck makes me say yuck and other things that rhyme with muck. It doesn’t suck, that’s not my cluck; it just strikes your gut like a hockey puck.

It’s big, it’s brash, it kicks you in the ash; it glances glass like trailer trash. I’m sure you don’t have small man’s rash, but there wasn’t better for your cash?

Why must you be bigger with your hand on that trigger, to laugh the town like a cowboy “figger”. It’s okay that your tough, you don’t have to bluff, we know your jeans contain “the stuff”.

But bullies spout fire from large-lipped “boca”, but it’s something other to have my tail taste your “troca”.