He can’t be shush’d, can he…?
Because, as does Dante,
perverse vigilante,
Jim views the world slanty
while, like some bacchante
well-oiled on Chianti,
he pads through his shanty
(Where…? Not Ypsilanti.)
lamenting, in chanty,
1, fortunes too scanty
(like those of Tom Canty),
2, gigs penny-ante
(like Armand Asante)
3, (laws non obstante)
all obstacles anti.
Jim has to recant (he
is too Corybanty,
too Oscar Levanty,
so rarely Hugh Granty)
before, like Mame (Aunty),
he sheds bra and pantie
and, gone gallavanty,
mounts one final rant:
“Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeee…!”
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