I put up with a lot, I confess;
I weather your obscure temperament,
Play host to ill humour.
I contend with mild distress and
Acclimatise to vagrant glance and
Occasional digression.
But I hate how this turned out,
I hate that he's a fool, a
Common antidote to your exotic
Poisons.
That he bears no ill will, that he
Treats me as nothing more than
A footnote in your powdery tome.
And I hate how he is right to do so.