Ode: Cause of Wills’ rubble

Agony in Will’
My most witty friend,
Barely suppress if he will
Ruefully face the grounds.

Elegy of a witty-man living
On the windy hills,
The witty birds
Winnow out.

Swine position
Now,
Even the witless
Rules his garden.

Error in his syncopated rhythm
The origin of the rubble
Rumpling his well bluff hair
Like dust in the whirling air.

My friend my friend
Lost his way home
In the rumpus’ rubble
Walls of cloak.

Woe betide inconsistency,
Slough, slouch, and stumbling block
For driving the plover
Away from the wet ground.

Sylvan surrounding;
An optimistic augury
To the barren-desert-lifer
Barrel of agony, my friend my friend.

Plover, please perk-up
Least he ignores the chameleon faeces
For coyness
And slouch are the bases

Barrel of agony
My friend my friend
No more fun in the drink we taste,
No more tact in speech we lay

It shouldn’t be the end
Sad when the brain
Forgets to stay up the head
Barrel of agony, my friend my friend.

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