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?

Portrait of bearded baby


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