Twas the night before the night before rise And upon this post, were everyone's eyes. All, that is, except for mine. For at Taco Bell had I gone to dine. While a-munching on my lovely burrito, I turned to my best mate, Tito. Said to him, I, "what's this poetry shit?" "Quite the prose" he said, after reading it. I would have to agree Otherwise, from Tito's swinging left hand would I flee. You see this is a poem about my mate Tito And his love for poetry and a fiery Quesorito. He is a large man, is my mate Every morning, to the gym, he is never late. Bench press and leg press, He makes all women wet in the dress. He is a man of distinction, But in crucible he only earns medals for participation. His gun skill is not even present, Watching him play is a truly hilarious event. But laugh at him, you must not, For he will smack you into next week and leave you to rot. Tito, he values his pride, He can often be heard yelling "How the -blam!- is it that damn hunter hasn't DIED?" The best of pals, are tito and I. Unless, that is, I become the reason his character does die. Remember this I say to you all, Never insult Tito, for he is also not tall. Take this as the truest of warnings, Or tis only a few sweet sunshiney mornings, Will remain in your life. Tito is out and about and probably stealing your wife