Crim pulled at his skin
And found it gave way.
So the question became –
Pull or let it stay?

Crim was handsome
And had always been.
Why worry himself?
Why worry his skin?

Why bother with bothers
When there was no need?
Why battle his body?
Why make himself bleed?

Why, he let the why’s fly,
And then, oh, he pulled.
Crim undid him into
Twelve buckets, all told.

Pulling was easy,
He just had to unzip
From his schnoz around
To his lower lip.

He pulled himself out.
Now you wonder, I know,
What was under his skin?
What was there below?

He had a whole band!
He was a whole band!
From his femur trombone
To his pan flute hand!

With one leg a guitar
(He knew how to strum it),
One forearm a flute,
The other a trumpet.

His tambourine head and
Belly bongo to bang
Kept him in time
As his whole body sang!

A fine saxophone spine
That could really roar,
A clanging cowbell heart
And a whole score more!

Every song is a jig!
Every step a hymn!
Make yourself happy,
Go hear Crim play Crim.