Take that!

In about an hour into a tidy alley
flabby fat of yours will leak from here one by one.
I opened to you my poems treasure trove bravely
I’m, the prized words profligate and prodigal.

Hey you, sir, your mustache still has some cabbage
caught form a soup half-eaten somewhere and left over.
And you, madam, with the caked-up makeup lacquer,
you look like an oyster from the clamshell of your clothes.

The butterfly of the poet’s heart you all scale gladly
dragging your filth no matter if you wear galoshes or not.
The mob goes berserk, begins brushing wayward,
like a hundred-head louse it’ll bristle its props.

And what if today I, the crude Hun and misfit,
refuse to clown dodging my inevitable fate,
I will laugh out loud and gleefully spit
spit in your face
I’m the prized words prodigal and profligate.