Its little,
Then
Used up.
Sent packing
To the place
Where
Imbiles
Reside on couches
Reading
Nietzsche
Digging fodder
From the dung heap.
I've sense
Cut the throttle,
Brought it
All
Crashing
Down,
Gave up
Blue vistas
For
Orange sunshine,
Gruel
From a tepid
***.
Clouded dreams
I'll never
See.
Tisk, tisk,
So much
For
The sellout.
Hack,
Cheap swill,
Nothing better
Than
This cheap
Ending
Sputtering
On fumes.
With
Nothing left
In
The tank.