The night devours my soul like an angry sea

In the quiet cemetery I stroll alone, nobody but myself to hear the whispers of the dead.

Evil darkness shrouded my every thought

I dream of Ophelia, her hair tangled like the web of my lies

And her crimson lips as cold as my heart.

But oh! that lying tart

And her phony new lover, Chet Schilkowski.

Necrophelia a dish best served moist and cool

Fantasies rage of castrating that Schilkowski tool

He would scream the scream of the gloriously dead

thinking “Perchance, ‘tis time to leave bed.”

Yon window beckons,

Beneath, Posh Spice and Beckham fornicate in hedonistic glee, or another clarified butter

I pour sweet relief into my throat, soothe my tormented brain’s clutter

Despite my vows to wow Ophelia

The sight of Beck’s rump made me dizzy like hemophilia

It makes no sense, but this is art

And I’m not yet at the buttsecks part

Oh, clearly I remember!  It was most unlike a break december

[bleak, even]
My lust roiled and boiled like a fiery ember

Never had my welshman risen so proud

A vampiric lust I could not shroud

To possess that golden alabaster-smooth rump

Cry Ophelia and her rancid chump!

A Fool, A Tool, A Pool; LOOPALOOTALOOFA!

Flee to me, remote elf.

I’m, alas, a salami.

O.E.D. or rodeo?

Satan oscillate my metallic sonatas.

Won’t cat lovers revolt? Act now!

Yo! Banana Boy.

Wet rare paper art, ew!

Merely this and nothing more.

Except, to fuck Lenore

Lenore, the filthy whore

Nameless here for ever more

That cheap whore

Filthy whore!

Nick Nolte on an aircraft floor.

Beware. Lenore, the whore
has open sores.

I watched her traipse from the free clinic’s doors.

When I go camping, I like s’mores.

I don’t use Fop. It clogs the pores.

I awake from a fevered dream
where poetry need not rhythm no more

Indeed. Let the shitiness soar.

Rhymes is for suckas (and whores)

Palindrome playas score