Velocity...

There’s a nameless madman on a line in the middle of an entry,
Goes by the name Lamont, with a resident grin on his gate,
Lamentably, he tells a passing obtuse pig-like mademan,
To distribute his grunts in his own way, if it’s sadness he’s after,
He’ll find it in his wake, circling the dead with daft laughter,
This madman later tells, with his third eye, a passing unmade man,
Who idles in his half-mast uniform trousers, at a high internal velocity,
Not to follow or fall foul of the mademan with sadness in his wake,
As there, in the mournful circle, he’ll be fiddling profoundly with his fate,
But to quicken his step and stand by him, soundly in the middle ground,
Formed at an angle not out of sight, between the mademan at his wake
And the madman perpendicular in his entry with the grin on his gate.