The Miser Drank His Whiskey Sour

Staring at the wall, encumbered in thought,

The miser drank his whiskey sour

About all the things he was ever taught

While his hair untidy wearing a flower.

His maiden gave him a glare

Upon entering his sitting room

Roaring like a bear,

Banging on his head with her broom.

His flask flew into the air

And crashed upon the floor.

She gave him money for fare

And yelled, “There’s the door.”

Never has there been a fool

To become such a tool.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015


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