What devious organisms chew at your gaunt-like face,
And your little whiskers.
You are no man of the sort.
With pretty little fingers, you line your nails with cocaine
And sorrow.
You are the pretender.
False advertising plays from your vicious chest,
Where you beat yourself again and again.
One fist then the other,
One crying moan of pain,
Of Elysian morrowness.
What malicious spirit can walk across your gracious face,
And embody the dew of your own thought.

Briefly we, watching this fickle display,
And I, this morning, thought of the reprehensible joy.
You scale the heaviness of truth,
And doubt your better wisdom for the sake of yourself.
You are no man of the sort your frame presents.
Petty the messages and the messengers play.

So much for him!
So much for him!
You are a warlock that scarcely understands his own proportions.
The scope of these hasted words,
This anger,
This dread.

Oh fair man, you are but less than fair.
A quarter of a mile!
Take thee and thy fair freewill,
Take thee kind words and dangle them upon the world of elsewhere.
A mind but simple and narrow.
Throw thy woe.
Throw thy sorrow, thy immediate sorrow.

I negate you.
I negate you.

For the comfort of thine eye.

I pray thee well.
Obey your heart.
A loving and fair child,
Whose gentleness is but too gentle.
And you rouse yourself in speech.
Bear you the common sense to speak then we be of soft spoken words.

I negate you.

For the comfort of thine eye.