Out the Dirt I Came

See deep down for all I mean good.

But I’m not the type to divulge what’s cooking,

all that matters to me is that you’ll eventually nod approval to my food.

You can bet that I despise blowers of own horns.

The type that doesn’t hood up in rain, to merely flaunt a new hairdo.

The same type to grant then rant I loathe.

The type to tap then yap,

on your face clap, behind your back stab,

kiss and tell,

that type, should dwell in hell.

dirt1

But instead it’s I who dwells in hell,

for being able to tell; in both senses of “tell”,

the self-aggrandizement that flips human tails to heads

and heads as tails instead.

But I only got one question for you Mrs Kind,

If the world wasn’t watching in readiness to judge,

would you still be “Mrs Kind”?

Ignorance indeed is bliss because out the dirt I came in search for bliss,

and since ignorance is synonymous with bliss,

then out the dirt I go back blissfully, devoid of bliss.

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