Boy-o
Boy-o, my name for a subject
but he drowns-o around six.
There the idea washes up discourteously
on the banks of my thought.
Utterly wasted my time, boy-o
you did nothing to what I needed.
No fragment of your spleen
can be deemed a necessity.
I won't tolerate you anymore
than a thing I've created can be tolerated.
By me, the creator, who's lost
his boy-o full mind.
Box your ears, boy-o,
does the setting sun on the devil's side.
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