The miscreant carried a bushel of poisoned apples
And gave the out to anyone who thought themselves a good judge of character
He exasperates the attentive ones who suffer from a hand to mouth problem
He discoursed immensely on the subject of turmeric and thickened plots  

The deathbed confessor's ghost implored the miscreant to cease his doings
And focus on a productive form and function
Preposterous as it sounds, this paranormal plea was second to none
For as soon as the spirit appeared the miscreant was filled with fear and immediately knocked off all his wayward ways

The miscreant became the lapdog for an elderly man who dispensed to him far out wisdom  
Using his silver tongue
He told him of his days as an escaped chain gang convict
Running across the country
Pilfering pies from unsuspecting windowsills
"It was wrong!" the old man said while hitting the miscreant with a newspaper for 1911
"Now, fetch me some lunch"
"Bring me one of those apples, and one for yourself"