When did he get so bad at this?
His brain is made of mush
Trying to be Dickens
Ends up being Bush
He go out thinking he will
Dream and levitate
Only seem to end up
With a commanding hate
Eight ball in a pocket
Foe without a friend
Who never grew to understand
The blender never blend
Pretending to be merciful
Like when you’re huffing paint
But is it not as simple
As knowing when to faint?
His head is shooting pictures
Of a madly sordid face
Making sure he demonize
At a speedy pace
He wishes to solicit
A story from a pearl
It’d serve us well to understand
When you tilt he whirl
It wages on within him
The war paint and the wit
Honest as a toxin
In a tux that doesn’t fit
Why did he get so bad at this?
The hatter in a hoop
The Nicholson of negative
The Gorey in a coop
The dipshit is in season
The Kaiser is unclad saying
Am I, or you?
(Oh, why are you?)
Either I …or you are mad