Once upon a midnight weary, while Channing Tatum pondered, stoked and beery,
Over many a taint and their furious slapping upon a strip club floor,
While he nodded, mentally dapping, the fists of bros who’d soon be lapping
Up the praise of Magic Mike fans who’d said they wanted more
“This shit is tight,” Tatum said, “But it needs something more—
More ass, or what’s the sequel for?”
And here he paused to ponder, when, with his fedora’s feather all a-flutter
His eyes alighted upon a reminder of the oily days of yore:
The face of Matthew McConaughey; not a minute stopped or stayed he
But, with mien of lady lawwwwwbreakers, Tatum’s eyes perched above his hardwood floor
Eyes perched upon a bust of Dallas just above his hardwood floor—
Perched and sat, and nothing more.
Then this purloined prop beguiled Channing Tatum into smiling
By the serene decorum of the McConaughey face it wore.
“Though thy chest be shorn and shaven, bro,” Tatum said, “And ladies be misbehavin’
Like the plot of the first movie to which I am now trying to write more—
Tell me what Magic Mike 2 could possibly have in store?”
Quoth McConaughey, “Man, you just gotta write a scene where we get our shirts off and get back down to business, and it’ll all sort itself out. It’s all about the ass, and nothin’ more.”
And so the McConaughey never quittin’, still is sittin’—still is LIVIN’
In that pallid bust of Dallas behind Channing Tatum’s office door.
And his eyes have all the schemin’ of an audience that is dreamin’
Of seeing him and Channing Tatum
Grind their balls against the floor.
Quoth McConaughey, “Yeah, man. Nothin’ more.”
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