Growing

He was a burgeoning misfit and sinking morass, A growing maniac That any and all could see Could not be hindered, He was a worry to his family And a blot on the reports and repartee that Self-appointed experts or his fading friends might make That ought to please, yet nothing pleased... Spectacular moonbeams like monograms on the wane And steeped in wine, robust movements Of comfortable pillows On top of twisted mangled bowels, Tawdry dreams and lacklustre schemes And the old bitch science, who's failing Each and every one of us And falling down, from grace in drag, On Tuesdays and every Friday... It has all squashed my resistance now And heaped up this poverty of appetites Until every lick of poetry in the bowl Is more sticky and more satisfying Than oatmeal on lumber that's never sweet,