I start this sad tale of a man; we shall call him “Pity”, He had friends but alas (excuse my French) treated them shitty. Now as tale goes he was of “higher ways”, When another came into his light; his fake shell cracked in waves. The act of high polish veneer, showed the true plywood, His course words that tired to wedge a gap did no good. Try as Pity might to act above and beyond, His thumb and a nap still severed him well; if he’d been up too long! Now we see he took his ball and went home as a child will do, He is with his friends; as many or as few? Pout as he may; we will give him a break, We will smile and nod for Pity’s sake!