COYA: Word Up!

A man whistles jauntily, he scans horizontally
over the hills for more information. He reeks
of floccinaucinihilipilification.
His toxic locks of the wee hill billy vocation
rain upon his forehead like the meekest of the dead.
In the stead of his arm is a cybernetic prosthetic.
He is not athletic, and he wreaks mastication.
Due south of his mouth, McDonalds would cry.
Within him lies more french fries
than a potato canon. No ban on food
stops this dude's craving for wings and falafel.
His mood is zetta rude, as Fawful
would say "He has fury!" which he buries
under puree of pinapple, sweet
as amphibians fried deep in Caribbean heat.
With a clink and a clank, he moves his rank
body aside. He hides, while armed like a tank.
He waits, a tackle and bait for the rebel in sight,
for he might make her vanish tonight.

Your Waifu appears, she nears with her banner.
In her hands, a katana with quasar-like glow.
She follows a nebula star. If trouble she meets,
she'll catch it and ratchet against the flow.
But the King of Verdun pumps his shotgun.
His target jumps and he takes one
swing in cold blood. His ice rail gun
hails her timely death, her fun
now ends. No ether, no magic quixotic
can heal what rends. It's a kiss necrotic.

But quoth the puppy who whispers at night,
"No power, be solar or lunar, can fight
the magic of words".