Why Rio Prose.

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Most fear the shadow of their own blessed thought.
Silly, because most is for folly or nought.

These same men mistake naked for nude,
and say and write only but the crude.

Rio so full of his own neuronics, toe to jaw,
his mentals so popular, they soon become law.

Egyptians worshipped the cat and the onion,
often taking off a fortnight for a mere bunion.

But Rio Rio stands fast at sparkling arms,
protecting even the lowliest child from harms.

Not long ago, southerners outgrew the simplicity of manners,
but our man Rio set them straight again, announcing it in banners.

The fountain of base men's character leaves much to desire,
no worries or concerns, dear Friends, Rio is on the hire.

The leaders of late call for a nation's passion of the mad hour.
Be patient, says Rio, or the cream that rises shall be sour.

Today's candidates are slicked in a heavy varnish,
even a gossamer breeze of one knot could so easily tarnish.

The field of Prose. outshines the lavender and lily,
which draws Rio to it, much of his word so silly.

Now in decrepit old age, Rio a retired caterpillar,
snuggled tightly in his sterile cocoon of cotton and down filler.

After all, they say those who do nothing can do no wrong,
so Rio the Decrepit slumbers deeply, forever writing his Prose. swan song.