Quite intellectual but not in the least conventional

This man I once met eccentric and perceptual

He was sharp as a #2 lead pencil out of a sharpener

But he was so rude and crude, not a telemarketer

Interestingly. cig ashes were piled up on his bed

As if collected from a cremation of the now dead

There was also blood red tomato sauce encrusted

On the Wellington oven including Dijon mustard

I had never witnessed such a disastrous mess

And he seemed comfortable like in his nest

For months and months passed until he promised

To visit, “I need inebriation” at least he was honest

He sung some tunes for me with great pride

“horrendous” I thought and therefore confide

 He thought we had a spiritual connection

For he read my mind I forgot to mention

If I did not find him entertaining quite simple

I would have run like the pus from some pimple

However, today we do not still joke or interact

For drama I can do without, no doubt-- a fact