Doggone poet laureate
wannabe his index finger wags
nonverbally naysaying those,
who doubt mine posthumous
fame and fortune, which snags
eternal renown within pantheon
of storied writers such foolhardiness nags
yours truly keeps bad company with hags
unemployed day after Halloween,
whose outsize egos deflate
analogous to activated airbags.

Apology in order implying
aforementioned slander of witches
despite abandoning (me) mummy for dead
subsequently necessitating zombies
of Sugar Hill rushing to ominous scene