Sitting like a fat old toad
Suggesting box his life away
Languid memos a la mode
Will he wear his tights today
There he is look, in the racks
Porpoisely going slow
Consults his Old Moore’s Almanac
To tell him what time to go.
Eating fruit and drinking milk
A walking urinal, he kitchenly slumps
Unthankfully he won’t be the last of his ilk
Bad apples in barrels don’t turn up trumps.
Half-day sanctuary in his brown paper box
A different menu, he considers the Fen-scape scenery
My suggestion are my resistance, and I’ve thought up lots
One day I’ll be regent of this E.J. Greenery