The Jag is in the driveway

behind the iron gates,

the home was christened "My-Way"

(he who loses hesitates)

 

All the frills are garish

from The Pillars to The Pool,

the gothic-faux nightmarish

its rendition most uncool.

 

The topiary is phallic

it's freudiently flawed,

the colour palette so manic

passing psychopaths applaud.

 

A bronze eagle guards the doorway

it's talons dipped in gold,

Munch's art screams in the hallway

a fucking car-crash to behold.

 

A kaleidoscope of carnage

a tragedy of taste,

like a turd that can't be varnished

or a Henry Moore defaced.

 

Audio and video available at link below

https://wolfgarwords.com/2024/11/04/no-accounting/

https://www.youtube.com/@DavidRLMoore/videos