ah the phoney drunk on
god’s greens in this modern
age they’re much easier to pluck
which plays to the phoney’s luck
and the critics agree
that his poetry on sitting
is of the highest degree
and his necketh doth strain
as he rigidly rambles
repeating retarded preambles
his living quarters in shambles
his bookshelf lined with candles
about hypothetical rain.
this, with none to gain
but the lull that come with refrain.