Smooching on the bum, so does the stooge.
Kneelin’ as if he’s pushing a luge.

A lapdog’s banded in virtual fetters;
he has always got to keep his lips wettened.
He’s a disgrace and a pussy that’s led to
smooching—just a clown making a moue.
Doin’ whatever he is told to.

His master looks on him, has this to say:
“Your theme song really should be “Besame….”
One of the lapdog sheeple that is fleet to
smoochin’ on the bum; fast he will move.
Reelin’ out a tongue that’s in the groove:
Open. Go, go!

He’ll keep on wendin’ butt-reach way and say:
“I will not talk, ’cause I’m a lap away.”
Boss feels lips comin’ closer for buffet.
Plyin’ effectively lips inexorably,
smoochin’ on the butt; the boss approves.
Eagerly he’s gettin’ in the groove.
There the schmoe goes.

Smooching, buss, buss, buss, buss.