Monday, July 7, 2014

Irish creme on a waffle cone

I've spent some time arguing rhyme
Without a bite or nibble
Maybe if I fed them kibble
They'd notice my sarcastic time
But I've run amuck in wordy truck 
Aiming at those minds defenseless
Hoping one would see it hopeless
As a Bastard I do give a fuck
The chance to be a little ribbled
I really hate schemes that try making sense
Of a world falling into chaos
But it's always my bad luck
That the metre is always broken
So my head must take a soaking
And catch some sleep as cats do
In little naps here and there
But I have but one retreat
I'll just sit there smoking a pack
And worry about running out
It's time that's always pushing back
Against my dire need to pout
It stutters and coughs as it tries to start
A poetic wetted daydream
I'll play the villain's part
And down a bottle of Irish creme
And drag this cross the finish.

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