Shall I impair thee with an oaken cane?
Thy noise repels me with sore dissonance.
Thy shins may ache with sharpy thuds of pain
Those rad beliefs, sad fall, such lack o' sense
Thump time, you sot, and I, the elder, cry:
“The oaf and his rude invented whims
Are nary fair, and err of mind I spy
Has lanced our feeble hearing, coarse and grim.”
Now my internal rumble I’ll engage
Will loose this lesson on this knave, life lowest
How thy jests brag, foul younger pest, best in cage
Feel each inflicted bump, how fine lump growest.
Thou brought ennui to me, now peace I seek
So take these hits, as hits bring mirth to meek.