The Pigs Who Abuse Lulu

How unfortified are favored mystics;
ripened men devoid of backbones,
ladies with bogus analogies of love,
 others let known their nuisances.

Fools put Manchester on a pedestal,
without attention to outcome,
but things are much different
when dealing with intellectuals.
If recollection tallies,
 them old folks always let us remember:
“Self-praise is no recommendation.”

We do as the good book bids us:
“Answer a fool according to his follies.”
There are more charades than sound guidance.
The throng was never mine to ensue,
 so I rejected the king’s meat.
Truth is we are what we eat … and drink.

How warped is their integrity.
Let them cast the first stone;
I’m balanced high on clouds from cannabis,
while his brain swims in mug of Ethanol.
The bloody Brit suffers
from lack of …
lack of everything
except delusion of grandeur,
and Manchester has a strong-hold on Lulu’s carotid.

My sister, college professor, asked:
 “Where is Lulu’s guardian?”
 Her expression eagerly awaits reply.
While estimations differ,
time (unbowed) will render true chronicle,
but while I tarry for time’s revelation
I yielded to trepidation;
what nincompoop is in charge of Lulu’s care?