A tangled tourniquet is left
In mankind's stippled wake
Whoever claims to speak the truth
Inevitably sounds fake,
For he who over fills the wine
To brimming, claims the score...
Whereupon, in actual fact,
He invariably spills the wine, amore.

The braggard broaches loudly
In terms of absolute
To crush all opposition
To crown himself, a brute.
In each and every household
Obsequious, at best,
Opinions fly like shrapnel
To argue out the quest.

The man is an enigma
In his age of scarlet gold
Where his argument's disruptions
Contrive a hundredfold.
Where the phantom of his black intrigue
Bastes the pudding sour
And the spirit of our crystal truth
Desiccates by hour.

Whosoever brandishes
The tarnished flag of truce
In claiming saintly altruism
Burnishes no use,
For every individual
Who breathes upon this earth
Has guilty misconception
Determined... by his girth.

Flatulence forsaken, friend,
Let all men bear blame,
Regardless of religion
Or belief in the ordained
For the curtain is now closing
The final act now played
And God forgive that glutton
Who gobbles to the grave.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
18 January 2025