Fortune's Wind

Peanut butter on wheat,
flying by the seat,
o' my pants,
yes in dee dee . . .

A terrible,
horrible,
fantastical
run on screee . . .

Leeward me hardies,
sail on 'til morn,

Grasp at your life lad,
from the day that you're born.

Parenthetical rations,
my heart, a bastion,
my rapier-like wit,
never was in fashion.

Polyp so plump,
thank gawd for your rump,
sittin' down hard now,
ain't no cause to jump.

Pray on your knees,
thanks those birds,
and those bees,
shuffle along son,
and just say, "check, please!"