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Pliers pull'd a single finger nail,
From a filthy bed,
An unclean digit left that way,
Should be stripped instead,

A hand left with idle inklings,
will often lead astray,
and too many unpunished fingers,
may turn to writing,
Poetic,
and Gay.

All poems are born of the moister things,
Wetten'd thoughts of Slime,
A Father's forgotten load,
Turned into a Mother's Menstrual Crime,

Conception was my first mistake,
Second was a thought,
Third was trying to write a poem,
Because the last Stanza I forgot.

Settled Fog,
with Warm Blankets,
and,
Snot-Yellowed Sleeves,

Decorated the City,
Before,
New All-Hallow's,
Last o' Year's,
Religious Party's,
Post Solstice,
Winter's Eve.

The Kinder
were Cold
in Last Season's
Winter Slankets

As the women speak about,
their suffering marriages,
and how a husband,
Had sank it.

But off towards the sky,
All see
A looming light
A pixel
A camera's artifact
It is just barely in sight

Is that Jolly ol' Elon,
Tow'd by eight New Jersey Drones, bright?
No, no,
as it clear the Horizon,
It proves to be nobody,
Other than New Year's Saint Biden!!!

He dashes down to the Federal Penitentiaries,
He is pardoning everybody!!!
And he certainly does it quick,
Looking past our malfeasance,
with an Ice Cream Cone's Lick

And as soon as he came,
He is off once again,
Shouting:

>Yeah, well you know... I... uhhh said Putin... No, Kamala, is our Friend! Regardless, all your felonies are forgiven.

And just like that,
He leaves,
with Charisma,
Off to Enjoy,
A few dollars, from Burisma.