Quick portrait of a wiseacre

Come hither Kindergarten kiddies, it's cautionary fairy tale
time:
a friend of mine, whose given name was Greg, whose clan name
was Owen, he of the egregious approach to ladies and life, he of

the wiseacre wise-ass wise cracks - and lines - whose first
encounter
was with Serendipity (a love child of the sixties, the progeny of
hippies) in Serendipity's dead dad's rickety garden shed, amongst

the arbitrarily placed tools, weed killer hanging in the air like
English
rain clouds, who described it as "trying to put a draught-excluder
snake
down a rabbit hole", who later ambled in a field of
angleberry-ridden

cows, plotting how he would make so many more girls; how he'd
caress and kiss the temples of this planet, and hold it to his
chest,
this world. Now I must rap it up, for I have rambled too long,

children. Soon, it will be art, and we'll paint his picture.
Then,
in math, we'll work out his average conquests per year. But
first,
you may feed from my moral spoon: If you eat from the trash,
you're

gonna get botulism. He ended his days in a hospital daze of
daytime
TV and smuggled scotch whiskey. It should come as no surprise
at all, news of his pending demise did not spawn one single visit

or card or gift or cell-phone call. A semi-automatic kebab seems
like a good idea. It saves microwave minutes. But then you check
the box to see what's in it. Then, my dear pupils, it seems not so
wise.