I've f**ked up the face;
I can't forge neck or eyes in place.
It's ghastly dreck--
Is that a girl or he?
Smudged smile's looking otherworldly.
A wreck!
Yuck, yuck, yuck. . . .

Bad, it seems, is my forte;
I blight the pad with a moiré.
Damn! I should never have been there:
A class where sits a team with flare--
No dreck.
No, no, no. . . .

Yawing, messed lines are yawing.
You call this drawing?!
The hack's domain.

I have several blown,
The lines adrift;
I should have known
I couldn't shift
My thinking left to right.
My druthers: words to go and write. . .
A lift
Up, up, up. . . .

Scrawling, then I'd be scrawling,
'cause that's my calling--
The hack's domain.

I'm drunk, deemed "shitfaced,"
Which makes me get my lines misplaced,
But I don't fret and go on churlishly,
And when I gawk it's words I see,
Not etched
Lines, lines, lines. . . .

Falling, yes I am falling
Off--alcoholing--
The Black Jack wain.

Mauling, yes I am mauling
The page with galling,
Inane refrains.

Scrawling, yes I am scrawling
Lines that I'm calling
From wracked right brain.

Oh scrawling, yes I am scrawling
Lines quite appalling. . .
A hack and bane.