.
..
...
With Crappó hated by the throng
young York decided to be strong
and told the Log 'you don't belong'
and silenced him neigh three months long.
The corpse of Crappó lay unsung
amidst the muck of maggot mung.
Adoring words that Crappó flung
brings forth Thee Artiste from the dung.
This ballad now recalls to mind
Log's crummy comments, dull or spined,
a dilettante now much maligned,
the holey scourge of all mankind…
The only question left to face
'ts whether Thee will share Log's place
within the ashes of disgrace
adorning demons' fireplace.
*******
THEE BALLAD of LOGBRAIN CRAPPó
Prelude
The lord above returns to earth
descending as an afterbirth
and prattles of his paltry worth
in sluggish lines devoid of mirth.
In tedium the angels sighed
and cast his sorry soul aside,
commanding world and he collide
by grace… and gravity complied.
The earth is now a poorer place
defiled with icons of his face
adorning doggerel disgrace.
With character? No, not a trace.
LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S TALE
His day of birth! A cat meowed?
With nary but a fig endowed
his mama gasped, then laughed aloud
and cast her sin upon a cloud.
Rejected at his mama's gate
he felt his ego desiccate,
wax paranoid and fill with hate,
his self-esteem disintegrate.
At last the cloud came floating by
and caught an ancient angel's eye.
With pity for the puny guy
she boosted him beyond the sky.
Denied the milk at mama's ****
his nourishment was incomplete
except for jam on Golden street
where angels scrape their moldy feet.
Beholding mortals down below
he ventured into vertigo
and felt his feeble ego grow
beneath a chocolate cheerio.
With halo (brown although it be)
he rose above the holey sea.
"The ruler of the angels, me!"
became his favorite fantasy.
While looking down his nose at them
(upon his head a diadem)
he framed his face in foggy phlegm
and claimed he came from Bethlehem.
He then could hear the angels trill
"Just stop, because you're mortal still,
and even then you're lacking skill
except to serve the swine their swill" .
While scribbling lines in lethargy,
he foamed and drooled "supremacy,
preeminence" delusively…
unbearable monotony .
And with a visage woebegone
he scribbled trash till well past dawn
not worth the paper written on
and thus he made the angels yawn.
At last the angels felt dismay
and chose to act without delay…
with nothing but a negligee
he landed in an alleyway .
Since then he's never ceased to whine
"Please worship I, I am divine,
the lord of those who worship swine".
He's pricky as a porcupine.
Well, back on earth since Saturday,
he daubs his face in disarray
with soul patch stripe and black beret
and prances like a popinjay.
His mental age stays stuck at three.
And never reaching puberty
he scrawls some **** poetry
which seems to be his destiny.
LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S EPITAPH
Log Crappó… well, he died in shame
cascading crap, his sole acclaim
accented ó, his only fame
with no one but himself to blame.
He finally made his last descent
inside the pit of punishment.
Now Satan's feeling discontent,
replaced as Prince of hell's torment.
On looking back, one must admit
he suffered from a lack of wit,
could never quite get over it
so wrote his Masterpiece-of-****.
CrE aka Trollminator