Gerald James Timothy Algernon Archibald Inchcock
The Nottinghamian lad knows he is losing it, big time.
Mentally and physically, getting help is hopeless,
He gets uptight, but he’s completely harmless,
Depressed, untidy, ill and charmless,
He can’t commit suicide, he ain’t got the time,
Even his words don’t properly rhyme!
Somewhere, in his tortured labyrinth of a brain,
Lies logic, intelligence, but he can’t find them today,
The brain is active but rarely reliable or decisive,
Also, hesitant, feeble, and the memory’s gone away,
Some details it retains, and admires he does say,
Mostly about medications, Red Dwarf and Will Hay,
But his desire, longing for sanity, will not go away!
However, his efforts, hopes and plans are derisive,
The mentality-seeking strategies are not conducive,
At least not for 74 years… that’s including today,
He redoubled his spiritual side, and started to pray,
Again in hopes, he’d be semi-sane again, one day,
He talks to his EQ, that’s hyper-sensitive.
He wrote to an Agony Aunt, that was digressive,
He revealed all, and thought that was impressive!
She said she couldn’t help, and she was sorry,
But why did she throw herself under a lorry?
Inchy thought that was a touch impulsive and excessive!
Regaining logicality, will he ever find a way?
Or remain an idiot, until his dying day?
Another thing, why do his wee-wees always over-spray?
This blog was produced without a warning disclaimer.
No claims made for any educationalistical prowess of the author.
Donations and mental assistance will be gladly accepted.
In the event of the writer snuffing it, kindly donate to the Outer Peruvian Pregnant Kangaroo Appreciation Society, Nottingham Branch. 0115 999999.