Here I sit in an infested bog,
Talking to chipmunks on a mossy log.
My mind is vacant; the day is long.
Hey, nurse, pass me my sheepskin bong.
I've had it with you, perverted twerp.
So suck your own bong, give it a slurp.
Just keep your hands off my starchy skirt.
Find the usual sheep to fuss with, flirt.
No! No! Nurse, don't encourage him.
Last time alone, he gave me a rim.
Why did I give life to this hopeless mess?
Who can I pray to, and confess
When my work turns from grandeur to shit?
Nurse, pass me that bong, I need a hit.
Laugh and deride, O wise ones, I don't care
(Though I say I do). Famous actresses stare
When I dribble platitudes like brackish honey
On upraised bums of bums and bunnies.
You keep stalking me, so bugger off.
Unable to read? Electrocution. Cough
Up your rainbows for a credulous breed.
Tie a knot ‘round your stub to block the seed.
Yah, even though I'm a he-man, non-artistic boor,
I still remember, from my boyhood, when we were poor,
Lines from my compatriot Georg Trakl, "De Profundis";
But the ‘poet’ is non-mutatis redundis.
So I say: to oblivion for the silly and weak.
Let their mad mouthings only influence other meek
Scribblers who need a mirror to better compare
Their own lost lives in reminiscences bare.
With friends like these, I see it's back to the meadow
To frisk, gallivant with animals instead. O!
Bludgeoned cased buds in mud are my stillborn abuse,
Corned ham syntactical disasters, thin and obtuse.
Away and avast, boring knock-kneed twit.
Doctor, fasten his fingers with steel oven mitts.
Acch! Back to my bed. I need a pail.
The ‘poet’ belongs in a wordy jail.
Confessional donkeys on tethered ropes.
I'll join the fan club of the renegade Pope.