Egos inflated they pass through the world
Preening their sense of self important worth
Petty and sharp, compassionless and strong,
They prick and stab at all who cause them itch

Brightly, they score off all they feed upon
No love is lost on any but themselves
But no one loves them, they antagonise
All who would call them friend or fraternise

When young, and caring not whom they offend,
Of their aloneness they are unaware,
They flit unfeeling, into middle age
And find, in time of sadness, no one there

As no one measures up unto themselves
�Fool, moron, idiot and dolt� they scream,
Pathetic, desperate, fearfully they search,
And wonder why no love comes to their heart

They have not learned the faux pas to forgive
The petty slip must oft be overlooked
One might win battles, but the war is lost
The shining wit will not supply warm comfort
Copy Rights,
Nishan /