Flabby, Grabbly, Grore, and Glurch
sat perched betwixt the boughs of birch
on morns in March near Mourner’s Marsh
and cackled criticisms harsh.
Flabby jiggled merrily
on eyeing Reverend Runningsley
wet sweaty power walking by
and crowed “Hey Rev, lay off the pie!”
Next Grabbly sprackled sportily
beholding Poor Beth Yorbilly
with pimply guise and prostrate eyes
and scoffed “Oy Beth, you’re sure a prize!”
Grore then swore at Sean McCore,
“I know I’ve never seen you before,
but your face looks dull,
and you have a thick skull,
and you move as graceful as a bull.”
Glurch took in Old Terrence Train
lean-creeping on upon his cane,
but before the fourth could have a go,
Sean called, “Hey, what’d you say to me, bro?”
Consternated by the question,
and the question’s clear aggression,
and the questioner’s ascension,
Grore tried to circumvent confession.
Grore lied, “Nothing, wasn’t me,”
but big Sean Mac climbed up the tree,
and bashed the thrush down to the brush
then thrashed his partners to pulpy slush.
Flabby, Grabbly, Grore, and Glurch
left slimy slumped in pile of splurch
if rose again, swore on their souls,
never to be judgmental assholes.