In the distant past a flock coursed into Adel for a party;
but as the future turned a leaf, the affair was not so hearty.
To start, you see, was the stormy sea of rain that haltered hot,
the host and the house were mondo hip, but the alcohol was not.
David Smithy, the poor ole soul, disordered Jack Daniels and gin;
chugging the potion in just three swallows, his lips proffered a grin.
He darted out of the rustic door to dance in the pouring rain;
Scott, Steven, and Ange behind, screaming into the night: “Refrain !”
Dave brusquely met with an obstacle, and commenced to hug a tree;
the trio dragged him in from the wet and Set the ass before me.
Whale enough was not so well as he slumbered soggy on the floor;
an unholy, gagging retch rang out; aghast, I gazed from the door.
Yes, David took a ralph just then, and his hideous glob was born:
Jack and gin, macaroni and cheese, and kernels of awful corn.
Goof-off guffaws tumbled aloft; the gang was gung-ho pagan.
David awoke, did not believe, his response was so evasive.
Okay boys, we took some pictures, disproving Dave’s dodging plot;
knowing he was caught, Davy shrugged and uplifted from his cot.
Then we broke the fast, consuming cholesterol puffs and java;
retreat, did I, to play ping-pong, my mind sing song, “Hot Lava.”

*[ WSB ]_.