Don’t baby me
Ask me why I don’t have a fresh uptake on life?
This, my retort, is yours expressly:
It’s fresh as the rot my future world festers in
Born of your unyielding sin
Quit the play
Your meagre games of late
Deem yourself a seer
Cannot see past the end of your nose
Then you sever it, don’t spite your face.
When I have at thee
In part, I have at me.