apologies, apologies, to he who spins like a top below
He walks in leather, like a Knight
The End of time strides through the door;
And all that's worst of death and blight
Meets in his lab outside Bordeaux;
But mellow'd is that Swiss-cheesed mite
By Mr. Mom on VCR.
One shade applied of facepaint then,
Had half impair'd the horseman's face.
The armor tossed, the facepaint washed,
Now boots tap softly with light grace;
His thoughts run deep in Bordeaux' den.
How far the Kompound from this place.
And should his brother think go,
So soft, so calm, he does not hit,
The smile that glints, the eye that glows,
But tell of days in pillage spent,
A mind (that if you could but know),
And heart who thinks he's innocent!