A.A.A. AArdvark Corp.
He was a man up until late,
His passions were in love and hate,
But to cries and wails by-passers fail
To attend to his mess of a state.
“What's wrong?” they ask as they walk past faster.
He turns his head, the old disaster,
He's plastered. Beer and cheer, his mistress, the bastards set him free
To miss the last train. Home he'll never be.
He wasn't met by a matched drinker.
No looker was a winker.
More gas than class, and between each glass,
A book of poems, his pen would tinker.
No tales of love, addiction's restriction
Left him to genitals, apply friction,
As he invented what he resented;
Making love to his own fiction.
He was a persevering poet,
A horror movie throw-back,
He was a punk of old, no friends left to accompany
His now solo tracks.
With dead rock-stars tallied on his guitar,
And words of nightmares in charcoal black,
He'd busk his way to infamy.
Somehow he'd slip through the cracks.
He was a rodeo clown
Now working for the circus.
He was used to dodging hoof and horn,
Not for laughs, but for a purpose.
With a knack to dance with danger,
He made the spectacle a ruckus.
Now they sit in awe as the matador,
To slay a bull, he dare instruct us.
He was a bigot and a bully
With aim to divide
Differing opinions, cultures, cast and creed,
Unless they conform to his side.
He made a heaven only to access few,
On death it's your choice that he decides,
And on his, he sits alone in solitude.
Most rather hell than on his wagon, ride.
His passions were in love and hate,
But to cries and wails by-passers fail
To attend to his mess of a state.
“What's wrong?” they ask as they walk past faster.
He turns his head, the old disaster,
He's plastered. Beer and cheer, his mistress, the bastards set him free
To miss the last train. Home he'll never be.
He wasn't met by a matched drinker.
No looker was a winker.
More gas than class, and between each glass,
A book of poems, his pen would tinker.
No tales of love, addiction's restriction
Left him to genitals, apply friction,
As he invented what he resented;
Making love to his own fiction.
He was a persevering poet,
A horror movie throw-back,
He was a punk of old, no friends left to accompany
His now solo tracks.
With dead rock-stars tallied on his guitar,
And words of nightmares in charcoal black,
He'd busk his way to infamy.
Somehow he'd slip through the cracks.
He was a rodeo clown
Now working for the circus.
He was used to dodging hoof and horn,
Not for laughs, but for a purpose.
With a knack to dance with danger,
He made the spectacle a ruckus.
Now they sit in awe as the matador,
To slay a bull, he dare instruct us.
He was a bigot and a bully
With aim to divide
Differing opinions, cultures, cast and creed,
Unless they conform to his side.
He made a heaven only to access few,
On death it's your choice that he decides,
And on his, he sits alone in solitude.
Most rather hell than on his wagon, ride.
