poem: mister angry

 

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.

 

 

 

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