When ink and pen in hands of men
inscribe your form, bipedal P,
they draw an altar on which
God has slaughtered all stability.

No eyes could ever soak
in all the places you anoint,
and yet to see at once,
we only need the point.

Flirting with infinity,
your geometric progeny,
that fit inside you, ho, so tight,
with triangles, that feel so right.

3.1415926535897
932384626433
8327950288419
716939937510
582097494459

Your ever-constant homily
says flaw is discipline,
the patron saint of imperfection
frees us from our sin.

And if our transcendental lift
shall find a final floor,
then Man will know the death of Gos,
where wonder was before.

Yeah, I know this pi shit
backwards and forwards!
Check It Out!

I did three chicks,
Then a pointed at the door.
A girl entered in,
So that made it four.

I snapped one time
In came another five.
Add ´em all up,
And that makes nine.

The av´rage age:
Twenty six point five.
Now that´s what i call,
Gettin, some Pi!

Five of the chicks
Wore six-inch heels.
Two of the nine
Squealed like seals.

Five-one-four,
was the area code.
Quebec, Canada,
my winter abode,

And my one-point-three
million dollar chalet.
Pi bacwards, pi forwards,
all night and all day!

3.1415926535897
932384626433
8327950288419
716939937510
582097494459
230781640628
620899862803
482534211706
798214808651
328230664709
384460955058
223172535940
812848111745
028410270193
852110555964
462294895493
038196442288