You have an itch, like scabs of rust;
broken glass against shattered dreams.
Your friends scratch, high flyers, achievers,
people with degrees.

You say,
"The money pays well;
not enough to please!"

You have an itch your friends scratch,
a small mind, a factory of doom.

You say,
"I have no time to share
with rancid loathsome you!"

You say,
"No stranger or pauper ever offends,
my small mind is only fit for me!"

You shelter your friends,
like children cowering from the rain;
animals from God's thunder.
You call them by name,
my dear, my blessed, my cherub;
daring not to restrain.

You say,
"You are a rancid loathsome disease
my mind cannot breathe!"

I,
I have an itch;
my friends will scratch it,
when I offend.

"Do I offend?"
"You are nothing to me!"

My small mind and I like to please,
but only my friends;
not you,
you rancid
loathsome
disease.