Poor You!

How well the barb becomes the rose,
as in another garden grows,
the flowers, you would claim as yours,
to mask your putrid, weeping sores.

And when you know, this cannot be,
you sow wild seeds of sympathy,
then liberally, with devious grin,
spread from the fertilizer bin.

The shoots of naïve innocence,
spring forth and bloom in your defence,
while you, with shrug and tearful blink,
demurely raise your glass and drink.

‘I wish you well’, you sad exclaim,
your refilled glass, devoid of shame.
For what have you now left to lose…
and so much mileage still to use?

How long can you, with heart on sleeve,
Still wear the ‘Poor Me’ mask and ‘grieve’?
‘Oh look at me, how my tears flow;
I’m so hard done by, don’t you know!’

The pity falls, like summer rain
as you write more [more of the same].
Your eager friends all cry with you
admonishing: ‘How true, how true…’

While you, in clearly scorn-fed rage,
administer, as though a sage.
Awaiting each empathic fawn,
that help you feel more Queen than Pawn.

In truth, my news is second-hand,
for I have left your throne unmanned.
But I am sure disciples flock
to listen, praising your ‘ad hoc’.

The game is over now, you’ve lost -
accept the fact and pay the cost.
Put aside your whining strife;
Get up, get out and get a life!

Chris Birrane © 2012