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Congenital Irritability

    From father to son, a critically caustic tongue

    not political, he puts on no face

    what furrows the brow sunup to sundown

    this unrighteous pachydermal race.

    Row follows row, claiming none are in tow

    burlesquing their plebeian plight

    act and react to fiction or fact

    rich/poor, black/white, day and night.

    A world weaning somewhere between

    lacklustre living and lolling along

    “Think for yourselves!” don’t ring any bells

    just the maxim of – “Don’t tell me I’m wrong!”

    The point I suppose (to lead by the nose)

    which fits nicely with their motif

    most of the planet, with brains made of granite

    plays poker daily with their beliefs.

    Max S.