Dedicated to Mr. York
Eliot's a BUM,
He chooses to work on a poetry website,
Instead of investing in Vanguard ETFs,
With the dollas from his coding job,
Take the hot dog from its bun,
And I'll dedicate my life,
To an art form that's constantly dying,
And being reborn,
Eliot's A BUM,
Which is why I always refer to him,
As "the gawd with no name,"
His soul is just as tattered as his jeans and,
He ain't no perfect person,
But his heart will not be served,
With spicy mustard.
You heard it here,
ELIOT'S A BUM,
Just one man with compooter,
And probably some sort of arugula salad,
Next to his cat named Wimbletoe,
While he reads the emotions of scattered realities,
Over and over and over and over,
Putting the proverbial diaper back on again with HTML
captain's horn blows
Eliot's a bum,
And I love him.
No worries, Eliot: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAz1Dw-VCp8
Write more poetry, ya bum. Lemme see yer heart.