I flow slow, a no-go, three parts YOLO,

two parts FOMO. The juice flows

like Cousteau embarked upon Calypso.

This sea-change is so strange, the peak

strain on my weak brain. Tight as

Heraclitus pulling Maxwell House

all-nighters. Knee-deep in lacksleep,

my shuteye is bone-dry. Gotta redux

my tough luck, jumpstart my pumped

art. I'm nobody's hero, a simple fiddlin'

Nero, a jealous Easton Ellis, so much less

than bloody zero. Vincent van Gogh

in the green grove lets his fame sing.

What a strange thing! Right beside him

woe betide him, sending fearsome rhymes

and lyrics to my highest atmospherics.