Ballad of Mad Dave, English poetry

Falling in love with mad women
Is not something I'd recommend
Unless disaster is your thing
Falling in love with mad women
Is treacherous my friend
So says Mad Dave with no proper job
His bones are cold and thin
Down as house dust
He's mad, mad and spastic
As a brown paper bag
Full of plastic spoons
His soul burns
Rattling its fragile cage
Pity poor Mad Dave for he fell in lust
And lived in sin with a maiden
A dystopian Heaven too soon doomed
Now Mad Dave is poor
Spends his days raging,
Hurling cursed pixels
At the Universe's uncaring
Eternally closed gates.

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