Splooged across the vast tract of space,
words fail. That very thing by which the
accused is tried. The noose knotted by
the hand that sets the non-sense down,
which rises in the stand and points,
declaring, “That’s the Man!”
“Alright, alright, get it over with. Pronounce
the verdict. It’s all true; even if some of it
ain’t, it may well have been. Go ahead, lay
on whatever judgment thou deem fittest.
Well. The Stocks might be appropriate; The
Yokes on him. (The court room guffaws).
Or perhaps, the Culking Stool; for all the
time wasted on that low Seat of Learning,
sittin’ in that old watering hole we all call
The Drunk Tank.
poetastrophy 