With pall of a shadow, I am crushed,
gone are tides that made me blush,
praising of a ballyhoo,
in jest playing an accordion.
In question, not my vanity,
of a poet with moral sanity
for inspirational powder,
its just a matter, of my pallor.
Poetically trumpeting off key,
from your lips a moistening touch
when winds crossing me sounder,
and the inkpot dries to dust.
My words dying last breath,
the lore, of a musical siren,
as my sail unfurls on eternal sea,
atop a far reaching plateau yonder.
Of rum a rum drubbed,
and my tongue strung,
on your bountiful tits,
giving wits in verses writ.
Praising of a ballyhoo,
in jest playing an accordion,
as my empty tankard cup rattled,
and the monkey expired.