Billium Bakefear and his trio of plays,
had long since seen their best of days.
Written to better his rival or three.
All had been composed after a snooze and tea.
Yet instead of flow,contrast and fizz,
his repose was a dissipation of biz.
For he had clearly lost his boil.
Should have said mojo but that didn\'t rhyme.
Never mind he was a contented soul,
who composed when adjure or opaque.
Possibly doing the gardening and snoozing by his rake.
Yet flowers and words should flow so fine,
yet his response was to be so benign.
At the tender age of 198,
he\'d outlived his rivals by living late.
Yet the days of stage applause and plaudit,
had been replaced by an ice cream cornet.
As the money had dried up still,
with not enough for a kill,
he would peruse his brain box sauce.
Maybe somewhere there were words to wriggle a course.
Charge Of The Greyhounds had been his latest venture,
yet the dogs had all run away,
thus some rabbit had seen the light of day,
and confused their plot and more.
Oh dear what an utter shambles,
it was all becoming a bore.
Yet never one to admit defeat,
he\'d work on alone to perform so neat.
Yet crowds had abandoned this hopeless tale.
And all those memories had shipped their sail.
So maybe now the time was right,
to put away thoughts of them,
and gently say adjure my friends,
and willingly say Armen.