Week after week the Putz on the hill.
Is doing his best to make everyone ill.
Nobody wants to hear him, but the Putz doesn't care.
He likes sticking his nose into everyones hair.

The Putz on the hill, doesn't know what he's saying.
He does not understand why the people are praying.
The Putz sees his world  spinning round.
He can't seem to lift his feet off the ground.

No one will hear him, that makes him mad.
No one wants to come near him, his breath is so bad.
The Putz is weeping huge fake crocodile tears.
He has his head up his a*s, no one sees or hears.

That doesn't seem to faze him, the Putz prattles on.
It's his safe place, so comfy and warm.
There's lots of pudding, chocolate his favorite.
He can eat all he wants and not one more bite.

Get this Putz out of our faces, the people yell.
It's obvious to all the Putz is mentally ill.
The Putz feels so lonely, in his safe space.
Constantly wiping the crap off his face.

No one loves a liar, no one loves a putz.
No one loves a mumbling, bumbling, klutz.
The Putz doesn't realize he's just a fool.
An unaware idiot, someone's useful tool.
D.L. Crockett -- 4/25/23