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-****.