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