I.
There lived an angry, spoiled boy,
Whose misery was his favorite toy.
Since being sad alone’s no fun,
He gladly shared with everyone.
II.
Where rosy hope scented the air,
He planted gardens of despair,
Sowed weeds of hate that overpowered
Love and joy that might have flowered.
III.
Finally, he wore his welcome thin—
No one else would play with him.
Ignored, he lashed out, threatened, crying:
“You’ll lose!” But they knew he was lying.
IV.
One day, he grew oddly quiet.
Age, perhaps, or his poor diet?
Had smarter voters sent him packing,
or the NRA withdrawn its backing?
V.
It didn’t matter—no one dared to
question fortune. They didn’t care to.
For when he left, their anger vanished,
Despair dissolved, and hate was banished.
VI.
How did one small man inflict such harm?
Do butterfly wings really stir up storms?
And could there, behind his bloated spite,
Lurk a spoiled boy, trembling with fright?
VII.
This story’s moral, at least, is clear:
Compassion’s enemy is fear.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
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