Lack Of Stacks Poem by Benjamin Wiche

A broke bloke,
looks at his clock,
ponders on his luck,
feels no gloat,
his fingers he clack,
he needs stacks,
back to the room,
steers at the cloak,
screams this a dream,
what a lack,
heads to the road,
pulls the trigger clack clack,
wants the stacks sharp sharp,
bullion van pack,
whack drivers out,
he shouts,
gun shots in the air,
sieze attack,
he admits that he is so slack,
claims he's not a tout,
then blames it on stout...