He's as straight as a curved line
Or so we speculate, or so he denies
A thousand signs, a million hints
Never as refreshing as an evening mint

He praises the men who live in the screen
Projected in front for all to be seen
“Is he attracted?” we ask
“Or is he just trying to bring joy so that his sadness will be masked?”

Deeper and deeper the bird plunges
Smaller and smaller the sky gets
His limbs flow and soon, suffocated
The days of his junk is dated

A sudden movement, always an explosion
Always seems intoxicated by a freak potion
Unnecessary but not always unwanted
But still every inch of his body is demented

His wretchedness is our pleasure
The distance between his pain and our joy cannot be measured
I say, everything in the universe is against him
We say, his very existence is sticky and dim

Angry mom
Uncleaned room
Missing chair
Math grade in doom

Lost books
Crossed and shaky legs
Blemished looks
Intermediate pad in despair

Rotten eggs
Sudden rain
Dancing legs
Junk in pain

Moldy bread
Virused usb
Relationship with girlfriend now dead
Showing off his bare body

Humongous hands
Side comments
Life never bland
But forever in lament

Alas, I bombarded him with questions
He states that he feels no hatred is most situations
Sometimes we wish that his life would change
But that would make our own very strange