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Curdled words on a crumpled up paper;
Inevitable, the well would run dry;
He bethought himself a poet,
The Incredulotti wondered: what! how? why?
Tonality and lyricism of Lennonistic bent
Was all he could muster so late last Lent;
Irish courage from shores so Sonoma.
Whither rendering the last’s sarcoma
Or stealing a feeling from a grey Rad head;
Will he ever launder those sheet’s rank bed?
Louder and louder still the amp turns eleven.
Old rocker’s soaring trills thrill again.
But there’s no crowd to linger amongst the turnstiles,
Another limpid verse seeks posting on pueriles.
Looking for his cool, clever finish—
Good luck with that, Go Fish!