Crazy wicked cool George

In the white room there was a black soul, which was nice because the front door was red and it reminded me of cabbage. On the soul sat a limerick whose name was George, and George played bicycles on the hill by the other hill. One day the hill played bicycles on George. George didn't like it.
He then went and told a joke whose name was Henrietta. She said, I know how it feels to be dead. Cos you're making me feel like, I've never been......born?
Yes.
They then became a relationship. They played tandems on the other hill by the hill that was by the other hill where he used to play bicycles. It was big and green and very much more like a hill than the other one.
They went up, and they went down. When they were only half way up, they played tandems. It wasn't anywhere near York.
Latitude.
Geography, said George one day, is like a rock. Rocks are boring.
George was boring too, trying to make a hole in the ground to bury his newly married turnpike, whose name wasn't Jeanette. A simple desultary verbal act of violence in an ever softening helmet.
He buried her. He buried her like a cat buries a squirrel.
He shall burn in hell for what he hath done! He shall burn like the pagan kings of old, the dirty little nostril rubber!
The Henrietta found out. She was absolutely loving it she was! She called him darling, and said, There once was a lady from Peking, who didn't know what she was seeking. So she wasn't called Jeanette, and she chose to forget, the wonderful poems she was speaking.
And that is it, it, itchy, stitchy, clicheeee.
I've never been so happy since I met-you