My cook is late with dinner and I hear no clanging of pans,
She's usually prompt with dinner be it soup, steak or hams,
Now my butler won't answer when I ring the bell,
He usually attendants swiftly now I begin to dwell,
CLEANER,  CLEANER I yell and I scream,
WHERE ARE YOU ALL? I'M HUNGRY WHERE'S TEA?
Beside my pipe I notice a slip,
And written using my finest pen tip,
Is a note so absurd it reeks of a mockery,
Their ****** syndicate has won the lottery.

A simple sample of a symbol used to approve the work of another.
But who was first to fist the quill and downward pull and upward ping?
Mr Tick of Tuscany?  Mrs Tick of Tijuana?  Or master Tick the ticklers son who tagged his type with ticking fun?
The actual answer is I'm sure a bore and a slip of the tip made the tick a score.

My soul is not tortured like the skin of a man alone in the searing heat of the dessert.
My mind does not crumble into the rubble of a post war city.
My body does not shake it's self into a shaken, splattered, spineless sorbet.
I am happy, not like a bird in spring but happy as I can be.
My mind is composed, not like a master archer but composed all the same.
My angst is not kept in a box of self disbelief wrapped in a ribbon of doubt and despair.
I am, me, happy to be me. I have my issues which occasionally need tissues but nonetheless and nevertheless and nonethemore and alwaysthemost I am happy