Wasbo
Clunk!
The drunken drongo clambers out
the egregious red slaughter van.
His
Is a face like putrid brisket chewing.
Soon
He will be sent down into the flowery furnace.
The charge:
Serial respiration with thirty-seven charges
for being a noxious twonk to be taken into consideration.
It
Is a sad reflection that such base grunge gets written about.
More
bloody darts repeats.
Dark again.
The tide is out.
I
Am not.
Grimbeau 