I will roll with the mad punches until my grave
rolls over me, like a tommy turkey tumbler --
aye, like a warbling apse-lapsing peeny bumbler --
and my meager friends cry, deprave deprave deprave.
For I cannot take much more without comedy --
the tragedy of broken angels in the wings
and shock corridors peopled with impotent kings
has left me whirling and feeling quite vomity.
The heavens are carpeted green with envious
two-timing biddlestupers whose spleeny tongues rage --
real Götterdämmerung types who just love John Cage --
against the dying light of fatch old nescience.
Me/my/mine, I holler down the hallway, my mind:
I won't give in to your sophie's choice double-bind.
