So sorry, bro’s. . .uncouth me of the schmoes.
I play a game that will bring me no fame.
Each night, I drink some ales, trying to tell tales.
Once I begin, they spin and spin
over and over.

Then someone has a message to relay:
“Don’t wake me up till you get to 4K.
Until then I’ll drift off into dreams
while in your fevered brain a takeoff teems.”
That is the kind of attitude I like to hear:
just put yourself to sleep.

“Wake me up when [it’s] 4K”:
What gentle Reader has to say.
Now, that’s advice that is quite swell:
Ones shouldn’t read words Ones thinks smell.

A man with tattered prose keeps up; on he goes.
The snarkness grows toward he of schmoes
over and over.

He thinks about all the good times he had,
but right now he is feeling pretty sad
but tosses off no reply.
He just writes right on through all of his falling tears,
then cries himself to sleep.

Wakes he up to judgment day.
Well, so it goes, what can he say?
At least he has stopped casting “Spell”s;
Those, too, brought on digital yells.

The naysayers are all strangers
to the lone arranger.

“Wake me up when [it’s] 4K”:
he’ll remember that when the day
will arrive, and that’s when he’ll quell
his efforts that put some through hell.