Metric Martyr

I was mired in sleaze
Forlorn, and depressed
For no apparent reason
Plagued by metaphorical
Hornets and bees
Through fevered impulse, stressed
And constant winter the season
Grimy, anxious, over-rhetorical

Hyperactive, rejecting the stoical
Wisdom of ages, but stealing
Just a bit, just enough of it
For the here and now, the gutter, the skids
Meditating on matters post-coital
The diseased, the lowly, the unappealing
Not hedgerow, style or cuckoo spit
Rebel, you have a wife and kids