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.
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