On Fussbudgets

Does any blight or cursed venom
Have a bite that’s worse than them in
whom no happy triffling matter
fails to launch an angry pratter
blusterbunding out the gullet,
of dispar’ging comments, full? It
really is an aweful mir’cle
how the purtin prudy jerk’ll
blab displeasure, frown on happy
thoughts and spread his brand of crappi-
ness where e’er his gazing lands,
confident he understands.

Sure he knows the right and reason,
thinking adaptation treason,
squaling for some ideal marmy
rule to keep us safe from harm, he
pukes his half-digested fussing
on the rest of us there, cussing
anyone who dares to change,
expand, adapt, or rearrange
whatever pointless, made-up canon
at this moment’s good for damnin’
things that other folks have done,
and those people’s sense of fun.

Giddy at the thought of every-
body else’s happy reverie
really being wrong, and more
“it goes to show how really poor
the thinking and the culture is
these days.” They never seem to notice
(stubborn as a tired ass is)
that they see through poop-hued glasses.
Not to mention half the time
or more they haven’t caught the rhyme
or reason for the rules they follow,
(insert vulgar pun on “swallow”).

Scared to have a joyful living,
hiding from decisions, giving
weight too much to old opinions
acting as the soulless minions
of a kingdom’s vain pretender,
wanting what they can’t remember.
Gone be you! I banish thusly
buckle-hatted pikers fuss’ly
stewing in their greivous jury-
room of molding righteous fury,
Glad I am that unlike he,
I am mostly scruple-free.

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