When ink and pen in hands of mennInscribe your form, bipedal PnThey draw an altar on whichnGod has slaughtered all stabilitynNo eyes could ever soak in all the places you anointnAnd yet to see you all at once we only need the pointnFlirting with infinity, your geometric progenynThat fit inside you oh so tightnWith triangles that feel so rightnn3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459nnYour ever-constant homily says flaw is disciplinenThe patron saint of imperfection frees us from our sinnAnd if our transcendental lift shall find a final floornThen Man will know the death of God where wonder was beforennYeah, I know this Pi shit backwards and forwardsnCheck it outnnI did three chicks then I pointed at the doornA girl entered in so that made it fournI snapped one time in came another fivenAdd 'em all up and that makes ninenThe average age 26.5nNow that's what I call gettin' some pinFive of the chicks wore 6-inch heelsnTwo of the nine squealed like sealsn514 was the area codenQuebec, Canada my winter abodenAnd my 1.3 million dollar chaletnnPi backwards, pi forwards, all night and all daynn3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640n6286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359n40812848111745028410270193852110556