Here’s your skelly with a skully tone,
Welcome to the crypt where bones hold court alone.

No chest, just ribs that xylophone ring,
Climb aboard for a humerus swing.

I’ve got no flesh, just joints that squeak,
A rolling ride—meet the radius peeps.

Fibula’s restless, pacing all night,
Patella clicks when the timing ain’t right.

Tibia’s bold but never too tight,
Twirling in the graveyard, avoiding the light.

I crack a joke and my body rattles,
Mandible smirks while the skullbone battles.

No marrow, just echoes in hollow chimes,
Metacarpals tap like Morse-coded rhymes.

No ligaments, no tendons to sway,
Just moves that jitter like bones at play.

You call me; I hear you in many ways—
Stapes, malleus, incus on replay.

No heart—just breaks and calcium needs,
I’m brittle, not broken… just short on knees.

My sternum creaks but no muscle tears,
Clavicle still flexes with zero fractures.

Femur’s drumming, a spectral parade,
Vertebrae sync in a ballroom charade.

Spine’s still straight, though life zig-zagged,
Now I host ghost podcasts—two days lagged.

I kick football with my tarsals backwards,
My phalanges snap at high standards.

Ulna’s sarcastic, doesn’t play fair,
Scapula shrugs like it just doesn’t care.

Together, 206 mark the spot—
Each one remarkable like a bone test report.

No cloak, no coffin, just a spooky bend—
A skelly signs off… that’s the bony end.