Befeckit Vegas, behold - a wind-up air siren need
With copious paint to your plastic’d face, it dripping wet;
Yo, there’s something unbound, its your excessive greed
The barren tender of a random strip-born slattern’s debt;
And therefore ye might weep phat tears ‘o Marchessault,
And Pietrangelo and Barbashev being extant may howl
How an opening loss might kill an Eichel’d soul,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow?
This fear for our first line you don’t dispute,
The balance swell with speed and secondary scoring;
It matters not, as you roasters are down the chute,
Give Brossoit pause, tilt his deck, end his wanton whoring.
Jets - there lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than this mangler of phrase, can in praise devise.