Pingus flower in Josephine,
an ounce of Pule on Sandalwood.
The bon vivant stares fit, ponders,
dances with the senses, wonders.
A crony, loquacious cohort
for a swig of covet and awe.
A mouth filled with high-flown mutter
for a tidbit of graceful sour.
A pose, a swing, a pantomime:
indulging forte of this harlequin.
Endless outlandish palaver
comprising Sweet Tobacco, Jam,
Ruhbart, Green Bell Pepper, Tar,
gamey, funky, musty, and ripe.
A last shuffle, a nonsense Waltz,
a salvo of bombast, gibberish gasp.
A last appeal, a strong defence,
a cogent plea, a final sip.
Nothing left, but a distant echo
of an all-senses ecstasy:
the dread one-minute-old aftertaste.