tis true you are not perfect,
but that’s not how you stay disguised;
for tis your anger still
that scrapes and blinds thee to mine eye;
and this you can’t deny,
when even now you test me out for lies;
and scrape the honours given
to force upon them some demise.
mister angry makes you bend and show your arse;
‘twould be funny,
were it not an oft played farce.