There once was a pissbum named George,
With stories that truly seemed forged,
He drew monkey-face folk,
For coins, what a joke,
But his talent world often ignored.

His poetry was atrocious, 'tis true,
Words mingled in chaos, no clue,
Yet he penned with delight,
In the midst of the night,
Hoping to find someone who knew.

George's diet was rats on a plate,
A pungent aroma, a terrible fate,
He'd munch with such glee,
No matter who'd see,
Till hunger had met its ill-fated slate.

Oh, the stench that would trail in his wake,
Stray cats would run, a quick escape,
From the heavens, it seemed,
A foul odor, he gleamed,
Living evidence of the filth he'd partake.

Now the law it did find him, alas,
For indecent exposure, a shameful morass,
His clothes torn and tattered,
His dignity shattered,
George's path, time could not bypass.

But behind those grimy, mired walls,
A glimmer of hope in the darkest halls,
For George the pissbum could learn,
New pages to turn,
And rise from the depths of soul's squalls.

So let us remember this tale we've sung,
Of George the pissbum, his life wrung,
For even in sorrow,
There's a chance for tomorrow,
To find redemption where once he had clung.

On Tuesday, August 29, 2023 at 7:06:42 PM UTC, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> There once was a pissbum named George,
> With stories that truly seemed forged,
> He drew monkey-face folk,
> For coins, what a joke,
> But his talent world often ignored.
>
> His poetry was atrocious, 'tis true,
> Words mingled in chaos, no clue,
> Yet he penned with delight,
> In the midst of the night,
> Hoping to find someone who knew.
>
> George's diet was rats on a plate,
> A pungent aroma, a terrible fate,
> He'd munch with such glee,
> No matter who'd see,
> Till hunger had met its ill-fated slate.
>
> Oh, the stench that would trail in his wake,
> Stray cats would run, a quick escape,
> From the heavens, it seemed,
> A foul odor, he gleamed,
> Living evidence of the filth he'd partake.
>
> Now the law it did find him, alas,
> For indecent exposure, a shameful morass,
> His clothes torn and tattered,
> His dignity shattered,
> George's path, time could not bypass.
>
> But behind those grimy, mired walls,
> A glimmer of hope in the darkest halls,
> For George the pissbum could learn,
> New pages to turn,
> And rise from the depths of soul's squalls.
>
> So let us remember this tale we've sung,
> Of George the pissbum, his life wrung,
> For even in sorrow,
> There's a chance for tomorrow,
> To find redemption where once he had clung.

Almost perfect, but we would suggest "dung" be substituted in the last line, last word.