Could it get any worser pome

By the epiglottal spit
The bridle and the halter fit
An opened minded Elder twit
I built from my mechano kit.

Not that it was foul or fair
it simply rocked while standing there
As if it didn’t even care
It had been built upon a chair

A chair, that is, of modest fames
impeached, alas for lurid games
amongst the folk with nobler names
All with cruel and wicked aims.

Thus, saliva, host and all
began its own pernicious fall.
In one soggy, gooey ball
an attempt to sour one’s gall.

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