Sonnet 475

Neither have I inclination or yet time
To screen my words for vain propriety;
Nor fear my speech be judged a heinous crime
When placed at odds with your feigned decency.
You draw yourself up at the vaguest slight
Perceived by what you deem offends your ear
And round your eyes in counterfeited fright
When jesting jabs your dignity besmears.
The world shows not you centered at the point
Where it revolves in timeless tenured turn,
Nor do its patrons wish to so anoint
Your ego, save with oils quite quick to burn.
Yea damn to hock all varlets that you see—
Spare me the trial, I’ll throw away the key.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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