Rest In Peace, Marlow Maurice


The man paid no heed as the crow pecked away,

At the bristly nest he had called his toupee,

His mismatching eyes were rolled back in his head,

As his tongue and his ears kept the bird’s brothers fed.


He swung to and fro at the wind’s wayward whim,

From the tree where he hung by a large gnarled limb.

His red braided mustache in need of a trim,

Matched the red braided rope ‘round his neck, ever grim.


The gold winter sun sternly freckled his skin,

As it heated the hooks where his hands had once been.

Grotesque wooden dentures perverted his grin,

And his mauve leisure suit was as ugly as sin.


Pocked, sallow skin glistened dully with grease,

His peg legs had cost him nine shillings apiece.

Miserably mangled was Marlow Maurice,

Hanged, drawn and quartered by fashion police.


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