Blotched blackened punk poet leader of the past. His is a trail whose slime moves timely, and drags old ladies out from their homes, onto plastic pavement, or even clockwork streets. Dying for every line the sword swallower leaps and bounds, only in conjunction with peculiar pulse now pumping.

Now home all alone he’s to feed the eager witness. The Fitz-someone old jokes cast only for those deemed fitting. Poems were known to the bleeding heart gnomes, dirt peddlers; the clap-stricken.

He knew full well you’d to die for a poem, and so gave his all for nothing. Word of mouth anointed him for as long as their saliva took to dry.

Scaled Everest, swam the channel, ascended historical rankings; until finally, all having been done he handed in his pen. Went off whistling then, that old Irishman.