Big Bop Pop’s got his five-buck shop
Chock-a-block stocked with stuff that’s hocked,
Watches stopped at the two o’clock,
Hockey puck hermit crabs, legs pock-marked.

Big Bop Pop’s got a lemon-pie grin
For the ring-a-ding pinball crowd reeling with gin,
For the pinstriped belly boys, lips pasty thin,
They stop by the shop but they never come in.

Big Bop’ll trade a B flat for a B,
A neck for a neck, a tooth for a tee,
A downy quilt bedbug for a fur cap-fat flea—
A kickline of one, knobbly-kneed.

Big Bop Pop’s got an arcade Claw
That prized up the filling from the hole in his jaw,
Bobbled around like a brassy gumball,
And dropped it again near a rabbit’s foot paw.

Big Bop Pop’s got a nose like the flu,
Loose elbows goosed with stale Krazy Glue
If you need eyes, he’s got some that’ll do—
They used to be blue, but he’s secondhand new.