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.