'Tis I, Lester the Jester
The jay with no say,
Only a bib for my fib.
The non-mask will ask,
"Does he rhyme for my dime,
Or for the old sake of time?"
I shall reply,
"That is an old fool's try"
I am a fool with a new set of rule
If I sound nice,
You ought to forget about lice.
A smile on the face,
The polished penny is replaced.
If I look astounding,
You will forget the pounding
You are compelled
To give good and well
For today non-masks will say,
"His fable has no ground!"
"His rabble has no bound!"
If my feet remain mobile,
My words remain infertile.
The few that realize it shall proclaim,
"Send him to the pit!"
All I will have left to spit,
"I am merely a jester,
The real culprit is Jones of Mister."
The author with shaky shy tones,
I say, 'tis ole Lester Jones
For mine is Bishop Bones.
Jones screaming the reaper's way
On this day I skip with Jove away.
'Tis I, Jaster the Master,
The jay with no say!