The Prose Polemic

 The quiet man shouted he didn't belong

In the tiny padded room

He was here, he screamed, because of the song

That he had heard being whistled in the gathering gloom

In was a tune, he proclaimed, that augered doom

Like the stale odor found in a walled up tomb

He protested, he remonstrated

He declaimed, asserted and expostulated

He demanded the chance to be vindicated

The bored attendant continued to read the songbook

And fiddle with the longest strands of his hair

Accustomed as he was to the raving kooks 

He heard everyday as he manned his chair

He scanned over the pages with an intense stare

Certain that what he wanted had to be there

"Aha!" He cried like a maniacal buffoon

"At last, this is it, It's as clear as the moon!" 

And started to whistle gleefully the nefarious tune