This poem isn't forthcoming,
Which leaves me bumming,
Feeling like my head is scumming.

I have a filthy head,
though if I didn't, I'd be dead,
My head is also red.

Wait, that's blood,
it's starting to flood,
aw, I died, I'm a puddle of mud.

From the dead,
I spin this thread,
While you lot scratch your head.

What is this man on,
Has he been smoking a bong?
No, I'm like this, I'm an alien from Zong.

You lot don't understand me,
Just be clear, I'm better than ye,
Yer all so twee.

Get away from me!