Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands,
unable to pull in, easily pushing away.
Afraid of what other people will say,
I have evolved this sad display
while lass orifice seems to open, slipperier grows the sand.

What writing on what wall predicted this particular disaster?
My surname in the thick of it and brothers
who practiced not the tricks of others
whose principals life quickly smothers,
drowned in precious oil by some precious oil master.

Another leapfrogging tyrant amid predictable heads and tails;
many of them have been so spoiled;
congressional aspirations foiled.
Temptation around their ankles coiled;
deflecting towards evil gets easier when Good Intention fails.

Just for you an intervention was selected but your unkindly input rankles;
your handles aroused in some an unreasonable alarm,
despite your obvious charisma and peculiar charm,
among rumors of people you had personally harmed;
accusation’s thinnest trousers have fallen down around their ankles.

Crimes against me somehow revolved now were seen as
threats to them.
Acting on omens, reacting with their toys,
fail to realize this intricately grown up boy
no longer indefinitely in longevity’s employ;
this story will stain history before report of my demise
ever gets to them.

Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands;
unable to grasp, easily pushed aside.
Still afraid, sometimes I cower and hide,
my scarcity of tricks not already tried;
hourglass orifice seems to open, somehow slipperier
grows the sand.