Weir

Just up late one night chatting

Weir
By David Paul Hartman

while walking down the road back there,
you came across a frivolant weir,
all messy and muddled was his hair.
his eyes were feverish, if you dare
dry nose a twichin' some nasty stare,
flies were buzzin', stink everywhere,
you opened the door and beheld my lair.