PRACTICE MAKES PERVERTS.

He had a flip-top bin
Where his head should have been,
And his teeth had the sheen
Of dirtiness therein.

His breath had the weight
Of a distempered cat,
And the sounds that came out
Were reminders of that.

And he lived like a king
In the land of the lean,
Who had sold everything,
And bought it again,

For half of the cost
Of the shallowest boast,
That was anyway lost
Somewhere near the coast.

He still chaired the board,
And the gallery and floor,
And kept a record
Of all the bylaws.

And his court was consistent,
Though known for resisting,
A single assistant
To second the existing.

But no one gave him credit,
Though I think someone said,
He’d look nicer beheaded,
And smell better dead.