Going to Atlantis

Old soul with cigar smoke rolling from your mouth,
Blind as a bat being swung at a wiffle ball
With one solid hemisphere, one riddled with holes,
It’s time for your nap on a cot by the basement door.

It stinks down there, probably the old preserves
That have gone amniotic, or the rat still trying
To live with his head in a trap. He should be given
A box of cigars and a trip to Disney World, imagine that.

This will be the nap of a lifetime, old timer,
Dark as the bottom of the ocean swimming
With olive drab plant life. There may be a secret
Civilization down there too, ruled by a bearded king.