Of madness I’ve spoke,
but I fear it’s been broke,
from the loss of the bloke,
whom the butt of the joke,
did ensure to revoke,
the derision, incision, entitlement folk.
There’s a rhythm you see.
I’ll say it with glee.
For the rhythm is one,
and I just like me,
well to do we,
me and the sea,
pitch and roll,
smell quite like thee,
after a week of no bathing,
and fights blood-thirsty.
Oh madness!
The folly we feel,
when the masters that deal,
and tend to the wheel,
wish only to steal,
our mindless madness,
and succulent veal.
Turn to the boob.
Boy what great rube,
put this in without lube?
A great ‘roid-shaped cube,
on the hole of the human,
television-called tube.
I’ve no madness to captcha’
but only a raptcha’
to which i’ve been matched– uh,
can you please it give back na’ ?
Ah, there it returns,
the madness that burns,
a hole as it turns,
while the scent of these ferns,
know not their own yearns,
but like me do churns,
with madness and sadness, and gladness that learns.
Wordsmith of Sol 