His diction Fictitious Mincing Spit and **** In ridiculous Versus Versionless In vicious Dispersions Of his bluffs Staining rugs Enough To know What hes Made of Through the Fluff And he was A weak hearted Blabber mouth Sporting A verbal blouse With a gerbil Where his intellect Was housed And he is Without A doubt A ******* Clown Lying down At the first Shot And hes not a poet Without flow To show it And he knows it But its rough To huff And puff Before a smarter Man With harder Hands And solid tramps Trampling The dropping pants With open mouths As they fall down To their knees Pleasing The release Of a king He Kisses The key rings And sings Of sheep Dreaming The dream Was a dream But still sees me Even after Stopping Breathing From floor To ceiling Revealing The butchered Meat Secreting The feelings Fading away And he looses But nothing new is Brewing there He can glare From down there But aware I'm better More clever And severed His vendettas beheaded him Before the sedatives Could wear off The kids The wife The dog Just *** socks now