Richard: (With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
The air was warm and muggy in poor Casey's living room,
The towering, terrible oscillating fan did naught to relive the gloom.
From the glass-front cabinet, a plastic slugger peered
Out on the cluttered surfaces, while Georgia bulldogs sneered.
Three knock-off Yankee candles reeked of fake vanilla bean:
Somehow, they made Casey's cave seem more dusty and unclean.
A PlayStation sat upon a shelf, trying its best to hide
From a nudist's towel-draped office chair, bedecked in Naugahyde.
Near the floor, tucked away, a proud brass camel stood,
Never moving, never braying, never offered water or food,
Dreaming of green oases, though its brass mind was full of doubt
That it would grow a pair of brass balls and get the hell on out.
But worst of all was Casey's rug, turned brown from age and wear.
Take a good look, everyone: what the fuck happened there?
Poor Casey must've passed his nights reliving his sad missed hit,
His obsessive paces leaving behind a border the color of shit.