Say what I will? OK!
If thou survive the well-contented Vegas,
When Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more then re-shag us
And reveal the crude lines of these one-hit mothers,
Compare them with the thickening of the slime,
That builds upon the strips and fancy-ass'd hotels again,
Reserve them for our revenge, not for their rhyme,
Executed by a stature of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this begrudg'd thought:
'Had Fleury’s plastic Muse grown of moribund age,
His thicker girth destroy’d the reflex he once sought,
To march in ranks of forwards with better equipage:
But as coaches fry routinely with McCrimmon’s pounce
Their recent play is but puck luck and a dead cat bounce.