Iíve run out of news
Iíve run out of time
Iíve run out of clues
Iíve run out of rhyme
Sermon on the mount
Surmounting the ravages
Of no Florida recount
Life among the savages
Hot-tubbing, itís time to dismount
Laissez-faire and chocolate eclairs
Why, Beauregard, I do declare
Your servitude has humbled you
To the extent
You can no longer
Pay the rent.
Iím no stronger,
Iíve run short of breath.
You call this a living
Of maybe itís death.
Trepidation about those reptilian
Cognizations that render you
A prima facie case for
Constellations of confabulations.
Truisms and falsehoods.
Run rampant as they digress,
Diverge, swerve and re-emerge.
Exit an egress and thus regress.
Holy Hay-Zoo! Poo-poopa-doo!
The call came for you to lament.
Very magmananimous for you to vent
Your volcanic quixotic regrets.
The fade. The fading. The faded.
Tattered, shattered, shaded.
My garrulousness comes to an end.
Iíve run on, Iíve run out.
Iíve turned around and turned again.
Anointed and appointed.
Too tired to make a selection,
too expired to take up a collection
for redress of the angelic devastation,
no more popery, Jigger-pokery,
bushery-shrubbery, bouncing balls rubbery.
Run time, fun time, out of time.
---Jack Oakes 5/9/05