Randolph Neumünster,
you are a beautiful, hirsute gent
with a voice of purest honeywine.
The nights I have spent, sir,
replete and supine
beneath the window of your bathroom,
drinking your lays
as you sing of barrowboys
and melancholy duchesses,
listening as you pass
stool after perfect stool,
the latrine roaring its approval
with every flush!
Randolph, Randolph, Randolph,
my darling, dizzy man,
my fuddle-headed moonchild,
my wise, wise bard.
Sing on. Sing on.
Please, sir, sing on.
No comments:
Post a Comment