Like Darwin on the Beagle, Bill agreed to board a ship; the cargo,
though illegal, augured for a well-earned trip. The captain's name was
Charon -- quite an odd one, cold and silent; the seascape looked so barren,
at least Bill discerned no island. The rhythm of the ocean soon began to
make him heave; the world he was approachin' was the one he'd never leave.
AcK.
Bill's Super-Ego's laid to rest, his Id is in control; impulses so
long-suppressed come leaping from his soul. If you say he's affable, it's
something you'll retract; if you think he's rational, you're falling for
an act. All the things he's smothered now emerge to make him mad; he's
going to screw his mother, and annihilate his dad.
Spffft!
Bill names his favorite poison, and speaks his favorite word; he knows
it may destroy him, and yet he's undeterred. So laud him for his bravery,
commend him for his verve; maybe he's unsavory, but he's got lots o'
nerve. He cares not what the price is, he knows not what he spends; he
worships Dionysus, his devotion knows no end.
Pffffbt.
Just to flaunt his education, Bill quotes Aristotle: "Everything in
moderation" has become his motto. He'll down a mere three sixes, while he
used to quaff a case; economize his fixes, and his herb intake is paced.
Discipline should be observed, it's always wrong to waste; oranges should
be conserved, so drink your vodka straight.
ffpt.
Bill's acts are often sordid and these deeds exact a toll; his kids are
all aborted, and his bridge obscures a troll. His memory is vacant and
his catnip-stash is gone; maybe he's the vomit-belching vagrant on your
lawn. Life is evanescent so each plum becomes a prune; every fertile
crescent will with tumbleweeds be strewn.
Tpftpt.
Babies need a nursery conducive to their blooming; parents, don't be
cursory, your job is all-consuming. Deal with baby's every whim, and
disregard the bills; soon you will rely on him, or else resort to pills.
Finally, when you exhale, and issue forth a cloud, know your offspring
hasn't failed, in fact it's made you proud.
fffffffpt.
Bill's doctors are discouraging: "You're not our favorite patient";
things that he finds nourishing effect hallucinations. He gawks at all
the nurses, and he hopes they'll ask for samples; he gets a lot of curses,
'cause his samples are too ample. Why do they give Bill a shove, and
treat him like a villain? He just needs a little love, and lots of
penicillin.
SpfaCt.
Bill's allies voice intense concern, his adversaries, glee; his road is
on its final turn, he's flicked his final flea. Unfounded are Bill's
feeble hopes, contorted are his features; fissured are his isotopes,
mutated are his creatures. His corpuscles have been destroyed, his
blood's no longer red; if Bill ever gets employed, he'll front the
Grateful Dead.
Ack-spffit-ack.
Bill's had a few incisions with no local anasthetic; he's witnessed
psychic visions, but their insights were pathetic. He's got a fine
ambition for a halo 'round his head; could it be he's fishing for a catch
that's long-since dead? He dreams about a Windex-shine where things are
nice and neat; submerged in brackish pools of brine, he thinks he tastes
defeat.
Phbbbbbt. Tft. Act. Spft.
Bill's fly is trapped in amber, and his cops enforce no laws; his
trumpet's got bad timbre so he gets no warm applause. His sunset's never
pretty, and his rainbow's black and white; his talk is never witty, and
his presence no delight. His bees take too much pollen and his morphine
cures no pain; his meteor has fallen, and no life does it contain.
Ack.
AcK.
AcK.
spfFt!
Are the folks mistaken who assert that Bill's deranged? Bathing he's
forsaken and his garments go unchanged. His hygiene has been sliding and
he hasn't shaved in weeks; soon he'll be residing with the Hare Krishna
freaks. He's learned some painful lessons is therefore ever-wincing;
Bill's derelict impression is remarkably convincing.
SpFaCt!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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