I have friends in the strangest of places
With the frightfullest fleshiest faces,
But none quite as strange
With a hint of derange
As Richard J. William, my friend estranged.
Perched in a hidden thick crooked spire
Sprouting red bushes, strumming a lyre,
He keeps one eye peeled
For a woman to steal
Affection on high, a pyre of desire.
When he spots a young lady of appeal,
Strained efforts made, commanding him heel,
Are all spent in naught
On his socialite lot
As he does what he wants, not what he ought.
With the sprightliest sproing in his stache,
Muscles poised and primed for the dash,
That suave fellow sings
A tune promised to bring
Passion and pleasure and rash.
When rough Fun meets morning’s wet hem,
Promises curtail and hightail it with him;
So all are distraught
From the short-termed plots
Of that trampish Richard J. William.
Morning's Early Dark 