A great writer once said to himself a pen should always have ink.
Never once did Mr Gibbet believe this or he never planned to think.
Mr Gibbet was a loner, solitude was his trade, all day talking to walls
No one ever rang on the telephone so no weekend free calls.
He chatters to himself all day as if there was someone in the room
Making out the chair was his enemy and his best friend was the broom.
A strange little man, Mr Gibbet who believed in his faith The Good Lord
He knew that if you lived by the sword you died by the sword...
He took in little amounts of food pacing himself between his meals
Did not know what luxury was or top supermarket deals.
Made his own bread which tasted of stale, cheap flour.
Scraped the floor for droppings and made the bread sour.
Bet his stomach was of cast iron use to all known germs
Drinking had only on effect and that was to scare off worms.