Ode to Chip MacGregor on the Anniversary of His Birth

I posted this on the site of my beloved Chip. For his birthday, he's holding a really bad poetry contest, and well, since I do pride myself on my really bad poetry, I had to share.

Ode to Chip MacGregor on the Anniversary of His Birth

That Chip MacGregor, the man can sing.
Were we not already otherwise wed, I'd offer him a ring.
I first met him, singing his ditty.
I tried to think of something to say to him that would be witty.
With a smile, I asked, "who might you be?"
"Why, I'm Chip MacGregor, can't you see?"

To the strain of amazing grace sung by a beautiful girl,
I thought I'd give eye-opening a whirl.
"No," said I-"tell me, what do you do?"
"I'm a big shot publisher, how about you?"
"I'm Danica, not the race car driver."
"Pity. For that, I'd give a fiver."

Not really, but it sounded good.
And you laughed, as I knew you would.
We joked and had fun
But alas, the evening was done.
In my green chariot we did leave.
When I dropped him off, we ran into a Baldwin named Steve.

We chatted for a while then he wanted to sleep.
Our parting came, but I did not weep.
As Scarlett O'Hara said, tomorrow is another day.
Because the MacGregors and McDonalds are cousins, I found a way
To see him again, I did.
At our previous antics, we giggled like a kid.
From scary agents I saved him.
Otherwise his life would have been grim.

Then from Denver he departed.
This next line begs the word, "farted"
But I'm sure it doesn't meet the CBA rule.
I guess I should go back to school
To learn how to write and read
According to industry need.

The next event in this epic tale
Was a whopper I was sure had to be a whale.
A friend put a bug in my ear
That Chip's end as publisher was near.
An Agent! That foul form of beast.
He could have warned me at least.

That the evil scourge I had saved him from
Was the exact creature he was going to become.
However, he was my cousin, my friend.
Despite his change in career, I'd stay with him to the end.
Who else would liven up the loop?
Especially following posts that make my eyelids droop.

Chip MacGregor, the man is terriby funny.
And to say that, he paid me no money.
Which is why my greatest hope
For a man who never lets me mope
That on the anniversary of his birth
I would craft a poem very much worth
A reaction that could only be called vomit.
With such terrible writing, I'm sure I can count on it.