Love song for Wilson the Whuckler

To be declaimed with a strong Irish accent

---

Ah!
Let us sigh
betimes for the
black-eyed
W I L S O N     W I L B E R S
master of our pieces

NOW is the time to KILL those molasses eaters
who ooze up from the south
Plunge like a swallow into syrup vats
repull their basalt bung
... and flee ...

Renive the suckers from his liver
and dwell upon the picky-nick of death
He respired artificially
stronned he the
(bald) W. W.
furtivity in fistclenching (secret-smiling hands).

Chewing his gums, Wilson smiles.
His deadly yellow teeth snarling
    at the longing
(fiendishly undernourished)
for devils and eyewitnesses
(as witnessed by the extraction of an eye)
For the time has come,
and Wilberforce must be EXONERATED
from the deadlines surrounding the parsnipage of Evil.

So, you good souls, close your hutches of enamel choppers
and hear forever the cry of the ghost of Wilberforce...

"O bring me the dead turnips who lie exposed to the deadly hand of
WILSON THE WHUCKLER ... let them be buried
in peace, bnear the soul of macabre caggabage trees who boast
of the death of their compatriots, the pea with split personalities,
the vice from which all rhubarb springs
and rocks the world with their contentment."

Shame and hurbelige! May they flow across the seas and never still.

Rocking with its inner consciousness
Dead with anger for the soul of Wilberforce
FOR HE IS FOREVER BANQUISHED
from the queendom of posterity.

Dennis List