My Human Disguise.
As I am “else,” I am more than I am.
I really only speak thus to myself.
My voice is always sweetly orotund,
But what I’m here to say is all mere sham.
I’ve earned a moiety of fame and pelf
And not once have I given a refund.
My fingers flick about like ten small swords,
No sharper then the edges of my words.
My visage contortions are a mirror
(That’s where I learned them) of your hapless souls;
Mine is a mimesis of your terror
As you nose up squinting from your mole holes.
Ah, sirrah, let’s be friends. I’m just joking!
This playwright coughs words as though he’s choking.