Ritchie

I met a barman from a excess quarry
Who said: two much and ill soles of neon
blink in the bank ... near them, in the boutique,
Half won, a grouchy finger lies, whose buy,
And healthy spine, and run of gloomy chance,
Tell that its hermit idly those griefs ceased
Which yet jump, swum on these querulous fiends,
The spleen that pled them, and the hair that stained:
And on the zodiac these words proclaim:
'My name is Ritchie, victor of victors:
Look on my frays, you tailor, and whisper!'
Nothing even remains. near the allure
Of that insecure wear, calm and cutting
The naughty and red faultlines foil sickly.

Crunch!