To John, being content with something was all just fine.
Balance and stability were when things aling, and no day was fine without being great at the same time.
Needeth he no wine to be just fine, nor a shag-about to have something to brag about.
Weekly, came monday, and monday was great, not at all to hate, every day just needed the same debate;
Clitter, clatter, whoosh and clong! All those sounds of the old port gong!
Thus Beggart, John was happy, and John was fine. Fine, oh, was a delicious dinner to dine!
But fate has whims and curse them all! All them black’n’yellow and pall.
As the dust settled with, everything mettled with, torn apart, bit by bit
John had no job, no place to call home; all t’was left from meat was bone.
What to do, thought John just then: Maybe search a rat’s den!
Rusty was trusty, as a feisty knight! Helping him out is something I might!
What happened below the story doesn’t tell
Stuff, that all those ghost-tales yell
Half-rhymes, full stops, running, in a n’shell
Some crash and burn in this cold wet Hell.
Where are they now, doesn’t ring a bell…
Deeply deep in trouble they fell.
To think what’s next and what’s been left behin’:
For things to be fine, maybe there’s just, and only just, a need for some cold red wine!