Wednesday, 25 January 2012

The Nosy Crone

She stands at any corner in venomous vest
And preens the foul feathers of Pandora’s chest.
Devoid of a heart, bereft of a soul,
Contempt is her yardstick; heart black as coal.

A sneer on her wrinkles, a wart on her mind,
A spit in her jaw for the face of mankind.
Janus concoction of vitriol and bile
A crone at a crossroads who straddles a mile.

A watered-down witch who sneers at the stake
A dragon asleep, a dagger awake.
And gossip, her fodder, she tills it and spreads it,
And the noble just smile and the poor victim dreads it.

For “this ones a bastard”, and “that ones a fool”,
The “others not well” and the runner, her tool.
She thrives on your tragedy, winks at your woe,
Sups from commode and drinks from a po.

And loud does she preach from her turret of hay,
Plotting by night, executing by day.
Praise is for self, abuse is for others,
“The poor kids can’t be right, just look at their mothers”.

She scratches her bottoms and feeds off her nose,
The broomstick her transport and poison her prose.
Nostradamus in knickers fingering a fret
With plectrum of panic, a rare waste of sweat.

For she’s never learned the good from the bad,
A tear and a tickle can be happy or sad.
Nor can you spread malice by sheer naked force
For opinions true value is a credible source!

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