I make them cringe.
They brace themselves like taking a syringe.
They hold the back door swinging on the hinge.
I mustn’t whinge.
They find me odd.
Like I was tainted by the hand of God.
They skirt around the places where I trod.
Condemn the sod.
It’s a disease.
I seem to put the others ill-at-ease.
Won’t someone tell me how to fix this please?
Don’t be a tease.
I guess I’m weird.
They send me in to get the riots cleared.
And quietly my friends all disappeared.
Could be the beard?