Maybe I can sell this poem and get royalties:
You think sex with a stranger's a thrill
And you won't use a condom or pill
Since your rhythm don't rhyme
Pregnant for the eighth time
But no babies (they're easy to kill)
It was just a clump of cells
So go kill it, what the Hell.
The daddy, he's a jerk
He don't believe in work.
Kids cost a lot these days
Gettin' my Ipod in May,
Need the cash for lots of fun.
Don't like it? don't get one!