Art Fart

His body a machine he fears
curry paste and eye of newt
The universe except right here
one big pfft

His baldness waxing billiard moon
His name an intimate wager
in winter eating his ideas
while tea leaves stain his future

Desirous evenings he is glad
of high ceilings and his neat appearance
hypocretinal consumes his spit
and needs on his back at least four feet of clearance