Tu Quoque

the lid of the sippy cup

is covered in dog t**d tinge

and the spouse might be right

she thinks the sustaining liquid

smells like an infant's refuse bin

while our opinions diverge here,

she has made an actual point

we imbibe something that has the

hue of sewage and has an

an off-putting stench to some

but I need it f*****g mainlined some days

just call those some days all days

and while the poets, the real poets,

wax mellifluous and carnivorous

about these things, those things

and the purpose of wingdings

the sewage is sipped as shards

of s**t assemble themselves into

some kind of stellar, salacious

stenography that only the sages,

savants and scholars can seize upon

or sympathize with

pointless alliteration brought to you

by the poetic brown-noser looking

for short-term adoration

and now sewage drips from his nose

because connections make hilarity

and memories at the 

most oddball of moments

and the newest definition for the rather

descriptive term shitfaced makes itself known

and that is how it all works

the butterfly flaps its wings and

the verbal earthquake occurs someplace else

tu quoque, anyone?