The stuttering man

There was an old man who stuttered, lots of spittle he would lose,

The stuttering drove him near madness, no wonder he hit the booze;

Longing to speak with fluency, but stuck before words end,
That opened him up to ridicule, for others to take a lend;

Albeit a very bright chap, well read and educated views,
He scoffed at those less worldly, those easy to confuse;

Espousing his love of poetry, reciting to impress,
Romanticising its meaning, the  message the would stress;

‘One must feel its mmmmagic, its essence at the ccccore,
‘It’s not about the rrrrhyming, it’s so much bbbbloody more’;

And after he’d had a few to drink, he’d express to those less smart,
Letting them know succinctly, ‘It’s our mmmminds that set us appppart’;

Not one for heirs and graces, his language most impolite,
He’d blurt to all and sundry, ‘No I won’t be ffffarkin quiet’;

Obnoxious and insecure, feigning remorse and regret,
Apologising for his crassness, ‘Sometimes I ffffarkin forget’;

Downing another glass of red, with his cheeks a colour to match,
‘Ffffark that was rough as guts’ he’d shout, then another he would snatch;

Of those who still remained seated, their faces were agog,
As the stuttering man departed, with his belly full of grog;

Having snatched a few too many, he’d stumble before he stood,
Then direct some more profanities, towards anyone he could;

Blowing kisses to the offended, including all those he knew,
He’d sign off with a drunken wave, and his customary ‘ffffark you’.