The whining whinger, of a sycophant cringer

A poem, by Cypress Butane

The televicious toothed bouncer who

Prowls the fringe outlyings of this club

Always makes me feel better

When they talk me down all bout

How why not I’m never getting in

Despair, she is not politic

And if you want to hang around hear

You find the means to wash your face,

And smile big, lay it on thick

You sew the rags you bind your self up in

From the remains of the day

And you thank the lord for paving your way

To lay down where you may

And if the sky seems grayer out than usual

On your excursions through the night

And if you feel a cold wind blowing hard

And catch a thrill of fright

Just remember velvet linings

That somewhere there’s a dream

That you yourself contribute

That you yourself hold dear

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