By Thoughts of malice infect every neuron
devouring the roots of normality’s foundations.
To subdue the rot and strive to go on,
I dream of sweet nectar, an ambrosial libation.
I frolic and gambol to the local saloon,
to submerge and drown the organ of maltreatment.
A tip of the glass and there goes the room,
from whirling to reeling and all things indecent.
At first, the tricolored twinkles adorn my vision,
against a canvas of bitumen where I lie here defeated.
And a sheriff is come to ask my contrition,
O, how will I cope with my spirits depleted?
C'est Acceptable? 