Runcible Spoon

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                   Thou art a boil


I lose the plot some time before the king,

prior to fairest daughter’s doting crime;

a wretched knave beside me opening

gourmet crisps: sweet chili, hint of lime.

What Cordelia says I cannot hear

for crunching of the most horrific kind.

Though Lear’s anger comes through loud and clear,

my fury makes me think I’ve lost my mind.

He perpetrates a hurt that’s yet more grating

than any this sad king thus far perceives:

the plague sore sitting to my right’s now vaping!

Such pungent odours my fair nose receives!

Realising the white hate that he hath bred,

he takes his leave before I break his head.