Both must belong to neither’s outside in;
besides, it’s either up or down or spin.
And anyway, what’s more is always less,
and wears at Tuesday noon its Sunday best.
What’s done is almost never cooked quite through,
and makes its water difficult to chew;
in circumspect, this marching on the square
leaves enemies and friends left unaware.
When drinking, alcohol against the grain
results in disagreeable refrains:
a slurry-o of words as thick as soup
fit only for a wooden handled scoop.
And neither’s out is destined to begin:
the game’s afoot immersed in bathtub gin,
and anyway, leaves no one to beguile
nor stack the bodies on the funeral pile.
What’s started well is finished half well off,
and left for those pigs swilling at the trough.
I would again, but really, what’s the use?
The one with the last word gets the abuse.
09 JAN 2017