His thinking was twisted, his words insincere.
His meaning was lost, nothing coming through clear.
His diction was terrible, he spoke with forked tongue.
He was  criticised as uncivil, his words often stung.

His demeanor overbearing, his temper was bad.
If folks don't respond how he wants he's quick to get mad.
His voice rises in volume, he's clearly upset.
He makes it known he's not through with us yet.

At the simplest of questions, he's ofttimes enraged.
He appears to vaporlock, he seems disengaged.
He stammers and stutters his face turns beet red.
You can almost see smoke rising out of his head.

He spews nonsensical insults, folks start to laugh.
He's the last one to know he's creating new gaffes.
He sees dogeared pony soldiers, whatever that means.
He's never aware when he's causing a scene.

He's old lunch-bucket Joe, who's still out to lunch.
Being used and abused by Jill, his dear honeybunch.
Walking this way and that way, forgets where he's at.
Everyones thinking, can someone come bell this cat.

He's obviously lost, he's clearly not there.
His drugs have worn off, his face crys out despair.
The laughter dies down, replaced with concern.
It's a return to reality for which we all yearn.

Finally the Easter Bunny, grabs hold of Joe's hand.
It may not seem like reality but we all understand.
He's led out of the garden without any eggs.
An old man beyond embarrassment on old shuffling legs.
D.L. Crockett -- 4/12/23