A poem from random type and spell check titled:

In the rehab sick bed, awaiting trial.

Don’t droop man, I’m not discouraged.

It’s a falsie, not a Kilo.

I joypop man, only once in a while.

You dress my chow like a fop man

and you qualm about how much I owe?

Don’t pose as my pal’s paw when your a navy cat’s meow

not even a forepaw!

You deck my chow in an afro and make him swirl.

Go, get yourself a hoer to weed your hypo’s garden.

I would give you a thou, if you hadn’t given me the pox.

Now my ex’s out to get me.

I am now as air, if a wisp, a memory fled.

Give me some mace, man and I’ll put it in a pie.

If you think I’m lit then let lemurs take me to my grave.

I’ll meet her at the pew and she’ll feed me manna from the ash.

She will walk with me to the quoin where my mom will be waiting.

The jurors will not see me in the courtroom.

Tell Jen to sift the sand with Julius upon the hill in Seoul.

If you take this pi and oil it a bit,

maybe remove the id and pad the meanings to make them less alive

and call the lipoid imam to sort it all out,

it might not impose, on an icier I.

Bring me some poi before I die.

Inks, I got lots of.

Deep inks, the kids will love, stories about my vice.

Put the king’s bishop on the hob and give me my sop.

Pour it out on this sob before I die.

My words are congruous to edit and oil

but the origin, the den, where Papa kicks himself in his grave,

is in the nave. No theory In trio can wow or hex.

I’ll meet Papa by the quoin, ergo leave me raked like the ox and cow brought to slaughter.

I’ll not cavil. Leave me to Dharma. I’ll not pout.

Weigh my words and Oil them, to be spoken in the upper rooms while they toot.