This interwar bore
This preposterous slick
On his opiate arse
For you he sits
His poison poise
Inoculates
The good space
Between your ears
A chalice of finery
He raises to you
And your common beers
But he’s been framed
By his own glasses
Caught by his own regard
Backed into a corner
By his own visage
And spread thin
As thin as his lips
On the canvas
By several accurate licks
This Count is out
You’re free to go now
So on you goes
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