Hedges

Once saddled with a nickname, we are lost
To all attempts at melioration, right
And wrong go out the window. Only spite
Remains, together with a sort of frost
Aimed at one's friends, a bitter coldness crossed
With hapless, sad neuroses, shapeless fright,
Distraction, undigested appetite,
And sour disdain, acquired at such great cost

The bridge between our lives shakes, bends, and buckles,
Leaving all our joys behind, soft stuff,
A world made out of puffballs, wind, and snuff.
I offer you my anger, truth and knuckles;
You call me Hedges, and you call me Chuckles,
Maybe Frankensniffer. That's enough.