The Moor Responds

I almost hit you, but I caught my fist
Just short of your proboscis, which was red
From being rubbed with tissues. What you said
Before that last remark propelled my wrist
Towards your puffy face, I had just missed
Until it was repeated, twice, by Fred
Who, though he said he wanted you twice dead,
Was true blue as a new-mined amethyst.

So you had said "Moor," certainly not "boor";
The word, though now archaic, may be fair,
But you can't be surprised it made me stare
And threaten action. You've been rather dour,
Your speech articulation has grown poor,
And you should be in bed. I'll put you there.