In London town, where English stories start Lived Roger Radcliffe, there to ply his trade: A songwriter, he tended to himself Which irked his clever dog in no small way. The doggo’s name was Pongo, and he was The songster’s sole companion in their flat. But humans aren’t built to live alone, So Pongo thought, “That’s quite enough of that!” He watched the window, looking for a babe Whose looks and carriage’d suit his master’s needs. But soft! What light on yonder spot-coat breaks? Oh snap, that pooch is fine as hell, my man. Anita and Perdita passed on by And Pongo yanked his master out the door. The park belongs to dealers, love, and dogs And Pongo gunned for two out of those three: He roped both humans round with Roger’s leash; And flirted with Perdita blatantly. Anita and his master hit it off And soon they lived together in the flat. Perdita got knocked up before too long, Gave birth to fifteen puppies, holy shit. Anita’s boss Cruella saw their fur And thought, I want to wear that on my skin (Because she was a little shithive nuts Fo’shizzle, got no clue what’s wrong with her). The Radcliffes said no thanks, you crazy bipch, So some weeks later, ‘cause, again, she’s cracked, Cruella hired a pair of shady dudes To snatch the puppies in the dead of night. When Scotland Yard proved useless, as it does When any story’s hero’s not a cop, The pooches barked the Twilight Bark instead To see if any fleabag saw their pups. In came reports: “De Vil Place,” howled one mutt, Cruella’s run-down land out in the sticks. So Pongo and Perdita took their chance And snuck out for to save their babies’ skins. When they arrived, though, sure, fifteen were theirs But eighty-four more pups had been accrued; Perdita couldn’t bear to leave the rest, So she and Pongo took them all to go. They rolled themselves in soot to hide their spots And trekked to London in the bitter cold. Cruella tried to catch them on their way But crashed her sports car in the melting snow. Perdita and her hubby made it back With ninety-nine Dalmatian pups in tow; They shook the soot off as the Radcliffes gaped And every spot was safe, at last at home! Together, they sang one of Roger’s songs, The one he wrote lampooning Ms. De Vil— One hundred one Dalmatians spittin’ rhymes, And simply having baller Christmas times.
"One hundred and one" isn't in iambs and that's terrible
Lived Roger Radcliffe, there to ply his trade:
A songwriter, he tended to himself
Which irked his clever dog in no small way.
The doggo’s name was Pongo, and he was
The songster’s sole companion in their flat.
But humans aren’t built to live alone,
So Pongo thought, “That’s quite enough of that!”
He watched the window, looking for a babe
Whose looks and carriage’d suit his master’s needs.
But soft! What light on yonder spot-coat breaks?
Oh snap, that pooch is fine as hell, my man.
Anita and Perdita passed on by
And Pongo yanked his master out the door.
The park belongs to dealers, love, and dogs
And Pongo gunned for two out of those three:
He roped both humans round with Roger’s leash;
And flirted with Perdita blatantly.
Anita and his master hit it off
And soon they lived together in the flat.
Perdita got knocked up before too long,
Gave birth to fifteen puppies, holy shit.
Anita’s boss Cruella saw their fur
And thought, I want to wear that on my skin
(Because she was a little shithive nuts
Fo’shizzle, got no clue what’s wrong with her).
The Radcliffes said no thanks, you crazy bipch,
So some weeks later, ‘cause, again, she’s cracked,
Cruella hired a pair of shady dudes
To snatch the puppies in the dead of night.
When Scotland Yard proved useless, as it does
When any story’s hero’s not a cop,
The pooches barked the Twilight Bark instead
To see if any fleabag saw their pups.
In came reports: “De Vil Place,” howled one mutt,
Cruella’s run-down land out in the sticks.
So Pongo and Perdita took their chance
And snuck out for to save their babies’ skins.
When they arrived, though, sure, fifteen were theirs
But eighty-four more pups had been accrued;
Perdita couldn’t bear to leave the rest,
So she and Pongo took them all to go.
They rolled themselves in soot to hide their spots
And trekked to London in the bitter cold.
Cruella tried to catch them on their way
But crashed her sports car in the melting snow.
Perdita and her hubby made it back
With ninety-nine Dalmatian pups in tow;
They shook the soot off as the Radcliffes gaped
And every spot was safe, at last at home!
Together, they sang one of Roger’s songs,
The one he wrote lampooning Ms. De Vil—
One hundred one Dalmatians spittin’ rhymes,
And simply having baller Christmas times.
Merry Christmas, mods.