how loudly stanley lies
overwhelmingly oversized
the opposite of enchanting
railing and ranting
balefully commanding
the awful acoustics of the upstairs landing
doggedly distraught
dismal as an astronaut
who just missed blast-off
flat as a fur coat a countess cast-off
clamorous as a diva
in need of anaesthesia
tossing back a slug of the milk of amnesia
dire as a gloomy, doomy choir
who hired a coach but the coach was a liar
manifestly mourning
like an underpaid pallbearer over-performing
a sad-sack cerberus, gruesomely throwing some
hades-grade shade totally going some
a dog-shaped fog-horn making you aware
of the hazardous drop to the rocky stairs
an amorous yeti lamenting the loss
of another sherpa who didn’t give a toss
howling the blues like a superstar
all he lacks is a hat and guitar
sounding so mournful you gradually well up
and a walk’s the only thing that’ll shut him the hell up