Stranger Than Poetry

I have some peculiar friends, some go-getters
with no skills in knitting, just bad nascent sweaters.

You let them grow fruits in their basements downstairs,
they’ll still end up calling them sun-powered pears.

When brewing some Earl Grey, my strange friend asked me:
“Say, is it impossible to burn the tea?”

He is truly weird. He likes hobby horses
and he says at college there's too many courses.

His oddest idea for a business in Glasford?
A blunt, ambidextrous, or “mix-handed”, brass sword.

In matters of politics, he thinks the nation
would benefit greatly from feudalization.

I’ll tell you ’bout one time I had grave concerns.
He messed with a candle; endured waxy burns.

While tending the wound, he tripped over a beam
and fell on a rock. It was not a nice scream.

The ambulance came and said he needed stitches.
Afraid of the doctors, he just hollered, “Witches!”

He insulted them. Accusations he made.
It soon turned into an incendiary charade!

He made it eventually, though in an absurd space.
So long story short, he’s a weird old birdface.

He doesn't like poker; he says he's not cardsy.
And he'll get offended if you call him artsy.