by Nick Gisburne
My temper is too volatile, too hot,
To waste my words with nauseating fools.
The sober voice of reason I am not,
Contemptuous of etiquette, of rules.
I long to face them, truly, freak by freak,
But surgery would certainly ensue,
Ignited by the twisted shit they speak,
By every crooked con or crime they do.
A short and simple statement I recite
When one of them strays close enough to kill:
“I’m taking medication, and I bite.”
They never dare to gamble that I will.
I live a careful, quiet kind of life,
But those who think to fight me need a knife.
