Ohhhhh now he’s back at it, frantically catching static; lines placed in time like a light in the attic.

Lachrymose adder with fangs of battery acid, but I been runnin’ up charges, I should get ’em subtracted.

The mathematical addict’s clap-backs are half-cracked; I got no time for ya sums son, they dim and ass-backward, all lacking in substance like ya dumplings is flat, and the tone of ya poetry is rancid an’ bad.

Used to damn by faint praise; now I’m done holding back, ya ego fragile as eggshells, you deserve to get cracked just like a crisp can of pabst out on a new-green-lawn with all the neighborhood dads.

I’m down bad as hell right now, but all I do is bide-time. And time wont do me I ripen up on the vine. And for them as won’t see gladly strike ’em all blind when I shine bright like the Koh-i-noor, one of a kind.

A violent body of work wrapped round a beautiful mind, inciting riots, raucous laughter, rhyming couplets, limey culture, climax, limerics, grime, bitterness, biting wit, wry remarks, sly mannerisms, linguistic descriptivism, criminality, counterculture, liminal spaces, social grace, clarity, and cause to think… and drink, another drink, and then I’ll drink some more…. the veritas in vino bums me out on every occaision that I meet a messy or a mean drunk; coulda saved myself some bad times if I believed what the vines had to say.

And them what hides from cabernet’s condemnation indemnify themselves in its absence.

mine will never be a teetotaler’s table.

Abide, and make right, and make light, of my pain.

Temperance is never none.