Honest men do not like my looks
Something about the eyes, perhaps,
Makes them uneasy. At day’s end,
Writing their journals, they leave
A small space where my name,
Had they learned it, might have gone.
Traitors, though, have been kind to me
Listening to my dull complaints
Standing me a glass if I seem dry
Giving me coin some times, so that,
When they die, I let them have
A really quite convincing tear.
Come now! Your comments (left-or-right-handed), complaints, libels and/or sinister intimations are humbly solicited.
I'll be back.