Conflating tumors out of cysts
Debating rumors with ready lists
Its all the truth, he still insists
Tired tropes in yellowed incisors
he burrows through the earth
No need of counsel or advisors
he's quite certain of his worth
Parchments declare he is ever right
and in that subterranean light
never dissected to see what they mean
or measured to any expectation
Answers only with empty recitation
somehow never quite what they seem
Some litany chanted, given by rote
as he shakes off the dirt from his coat
Smugly he retreats to his lair
to the comfort of his own fume
Hes sucking up all the air
of a stale and stifling room
He will never capitulate
'cause now hes a Yorkshire Puddin'
and I will firmly stipulate
Aye, hes for sure a Goodwin
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