Spoil the Rod

We wonder 

Wide eyed conqueror,

The prevailing wind prevailed.

Spun for six,

Picked up sticks,

Eight furlongs is a mile.


Tom tom tum,

Mixed with rum,

Wrapped  in linen,

Baked in sun.
(Aha! you rascals bend,

Like pages in the end.)


In paper backs,

in tepid rages,

Sunken eyed and 

Shrinking wages.


God soaked and

  so revealing,

The shadow on

  the ceiling,

the heart attack,

the small blue plaque


 the liquor was

  so appealing.

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