I got that mean tone busker brouhaha turmoil,
the clangorous Pleistocine bassoon throngs are at my door.
I hear the random perking of their filament bourrée-things
turns my urbanoid balaclava piano dust to dust.

O I got treebole viola turnpike laryngitis,
hamstrung agnostic floorboard sedatives fill my brain.
I been carried by euroswamp lyric songfest ambulances,
the clangorous Pleistocine bassoon throngs at my door.

The welcome mat is a reticulated sonata-bread hermetic busby,
the snorting dulcimer-vamp picnic vagabonds light my fire.
The teething munificence of their algebraic camphor-driven snowped
hobbles the concentric post-bassoon concerto-metricasualties
      of my snores.

Buy me a maniacal banjo-spatial wolf-glass tonsilectomy,
a Jerusalem hubbub hominid hatstand accelerator tooth-specific
      Mandolay.
All my friends got spines of sub-Cartesian deli-tray Internet
      proboscity
and I’m an emergency two-by-four subaquatic philanthropist
      in a lime.

O I got glamorous plasticine bassoon-glorious mob-tired
      spleen-various spirituals in a handbasket,
moribund Bundt-cake-tin elective blues band circumference
      overalls in a snit.
The languorous magazine flute decay bassoon throngs are
      making merry with my clavichord
and the estuary of my seismic nostril bake-off capriccio has
      run amok.

I got chequebook glittering Rameses song-board interstate
      Principio choruses,
Schumann nose-glue preamble gastro-tone cybershoe in the
      long Fauré.
If those throng-dipping bassoon hordes soon don’t leave me,
they just might stay.