Carbunkle Bob

and his war with the world

he can’t help but ever be rude
h’was raised such kind in the element
he moves too quick with his meal half-chewed
the size of his arms hardly relevant

He grins to his self, only never to people
he works till the evening says uncle
He sings for the dead, never neath any steeple
whilst squeezing the pain of carbuncle

his crown is half bald, his feet are most sturdy
he’s stern till it seems an attrition
his anger can burn at the worm or its birdy
for to bristle the world’s half his mission