he keeps hitting the bottle
and spitting his tales of a modern misfit
licking rizlas sticking them together
to make a page to write a better poem
than the one he wrote before
a notorious stanza scratched on the wall
of a tavern called the whisky waterfall
and he takes shots of scotch
between couplets that swiftly
slip into the realms of nonsense
constantly convincing himself
that the fictions he sells are well
worth the investment
giving each verse less assessment
eventually letting his pen get the better of him
betting his own essence on a poetic whim
he continues to scribble
until he found himself lost amongst
paradoxes and riddles
boxing concepts until left for dead
in the middle
of a ring of his own imagining
battered by grappling with complex
aspects of nonsense couplets
that come to him quicker
than liquor at the whisky waterfall
that famous old place
with the mad young poet's last masterpiece
now encased in glass on the wall
a testament to all those poor fools
who let their pens get the better of them
and descend into nonsense too
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