Your ditty will not win a trophy,
Forecasting a catass-trophe.
You reveal, in sublimation
Cruelty of imagination,
Sneering visage, malign air,
Thus your depths are all laid bare.
And your life reveals its Ruler:
Your own inner Psycho-Drooler!
Oh, begone, thou wicked fellow,
Stay in freezing Pocatello!
Sunlit climes and gentle breezes
Come to those who act like Jesus.


A