The Knife Deep In

With ill-advised flair,
In full public glare,
Though low on tact,
He, the self-made, imbibed the tract.

Eyes squinted, hazy,
To fathom the worded treasure,

The nostrils wheezy,
As the letters contorted in measure.

Threw it down, he did,
Shook his head,
Bounded for air,
That practically wasn't there.

The treasured tract, so far,
Had failed to accord the life,
That oozed from its door ajar,
When deep in he'd sought the knife.