From the floor a flight of stairs up and up does rise,
If you’re the sort to think ahead, t’will come as no surprise
That at the top it hits a spot where flooring once more lies.
Not morally, but levelly, is how it lies of course,
And down that course old Benny Boy, comes tearing like a horse:
Kerplunk, kerplunk, and splinter-splat, the agile body makes
Amazing time, and picks up pine, and ends up on the pate.
(now wait a minute, you might say, you can’t rhyme pate with makes,
But art just follow nature, and slid rhyme takes the cakes,
‘Cuz Benny Boy’s the nature and art is breathing hard
To keep apace the sliding chum and still remain a bard)
From Topsy-turvy (his torso’s swervy, unlike his moral compass)
He points his toes and wags his rolls and flips upon his rumpus
And all composed, as a primrose, he surveys all before him
As if to say “let all make way”, but adoration bores him.