Grimbeau

He was known to live life dissipated:

Gambolling in crazed buffonery,

Guzzled half a modest brewery.

When his liver, bored, emigrated.

My Uncle Head was steadfast and insistent:

‘Feed me!’ he yelled ‘Til I’m wild euphoric.’

For a pint of gin, no tonic: chronic.

So immaculated homeward: distant.

Ten Afton and a quart of Barleycorn,

stern tea and two, too loud radios

Unwelcomed him the very next morning

as he dimly recalled Jack de Mannio,

gave up on a shower and yawning,

levitated outsidewards to soil the patio.

Back inside he trawled in his shotaway head

and dredged up from its slum, the aviator,

Louis Blerio, who, a century and

one day ago, fetched lobster thermidore

and ate it for breakfast on England.

Head sloooshed a tuft of dog and considered

The perilous return voyage while his liver withered.