Rod, the nihilistic pilgarlic

Went to the bar quick,

Feeling like scree being nudged.

If you’re gonna be a quidnunc,

He wanted to get drunk,

Because of what he did with the odious Italian judge.

He was married to Vera, a virago,

And I sure even my Ma knows,

They can be damn lippy.

A walking doryphore,

Talking more than a whore,

A 100% xanthippe.

They had a bobblehead boy,

A real hobbledehoy,

And at best, he could only mumble some.

His brain was incondite,

A natural jejune twit,

From the lethologica land of bumbledom.

Rod, grab some bottles as he burped,

He took over the bar, usurp,

"My son’s brain has a chimera."

"It’s all very insane,

What I did with the tramontane,

Please don’t tell, Vera."

There was a big scuffle,

A huge kerfuffle,

When his son got the prize.

For Rod, no celebration,

Just a case of cachinnation,

As his son’s trophy was rive.

"I want Vera far from me,

Because of her epicaricary",

He would think that matutianal.

Under the zephyr willow,

With the judge on her pillow,

It was kink but Vera deserved the truth and all.

What he did yesternight,

In the fuliginous moonlight,

Was the reason for his son’s finest hour.

For the cause of his boy’s Godspeed,

Was because Rod peed,

See the judge loved auric showers.