He was partial to one single nip,
but no smoke ever passed by his lip,
as to attributes then
he would die by his pen
and while wearing a Freudian slip.
He detested inferior genes,
wore not Levis but dark Wrangler jeans,
blue his eyes, full of flirt
and Hawaiian his shirt
and his house he named Smithereens.
Though he knew his position in life,
there was envy you'd cut with a knife,
On Waitakere's sands
they held love with their hands
and they talked of the world and its strife.
Would you look at the gods as hot air,
like a cloud full of methane and hair,
woven tightly and squeezed
hordes of Lucifers teased
and the lies on the surface and bare.
If there were, in the past, friendly ghosts,
who would rule all the land 'tween the coasts,
they gave more and then less
like a rigged game of chess
or the stealth of two quickly switched posts.
Thus it's envy that fouls up the rules,
and integrity saddles the mules,
it is best to ignore
each small pimp and each whore
let them drink from the kettle for fools!
Herbert Nehrlich 2
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kettle-for-fools/
