Bleat a beat for us bees to dance to
Tug a slugs shrug up to level with you
Classic bombastic contrasting fountain
Of single shingled bingles, a mountain
A pint of fine point prints
Spilled on the still thrilling pill
The pale failure trailing behind
Exhumed and exhausted, he dies
A wasted, worn warrior of old
Stuck under a futile tomorrow's cold
Begging to shed leggings to pour
Her shamed fame from his tour
