Classic Poem

Well well well!!!—a dirty piece of work—
Come out of the murk, gone back into the murk!
As sure as my name's Faust, that's one of the worst
That ever on my deadened senses burst.
He brought an odour with him that went well
With the congested passions of his dead hell,
Built in the early days of human spleen,
Concocted of a frausty discipline
He had a waggle of his hinder parts
As if shaken by the combustion of dud farts.
He had an apoplectic barber's block,
From always keeping under key and lock
And walling-up his septic rages. Scarred
With carbuncle and pockpit, caused in part
By innate pus, and partly by mental fever—
The fake-blue-eyed professional deceiver!
He lives by force—that imperfect force that is grounded
On legal bluff, by wordslingers expounded—
Extremely artificial; always apt
To be by some brusque natural movement snapped.
Good riddance for the air's opaque with bugs
When he's about, and the bad breath of his paid thugs
Close on his heels, if not in flesh in spirit,
Is aimed to stifle unassuming merit.