[To, GMH; 6 years after 2 satiric poems and moments of being a jerk]
It is too late to compliment
Someone who’s lost trust in you,
That when the praise is borne,
Converted into a text and sent,
The memory has torn the text so much
That you are thought to be kidding
And messing around again.
How can you the distrusted jerk compliment?
When revision is just a term the A/L jargon dictates
And when life gives no such options as instrument?
It is the minute, thought deletable,
That make the painful screws.
Those like the parts of your body for which
You have the minimum use. That tells you, all revered,
That you’re the failure that you feared.