Poor nervous Joe, with a badly hurt toe,
Needs to be raised from melancholy.
The trees are green, but blank smokescreen,
Gasping with convictions, a mind in livid folly.
No nonsense verse, albeit a bit terse,
Makes conversing a huge hurdle.
Quivering his lips, flushed sweaty skin,
In the bottom of anxiety hell.
The world's moved on, his times gone,
Truncated jingles play in his mind.
The nature of the game, apoplectic blame,
Mistrust and of the deceitful kind.
Shortcuts are in gain, people broadly vain,
There's very little humility out there.
The clouds are dark, the forecast's stark,
Poor Joe doesn't expect anything fair.
The less a person knows, he thinks he knows more,
Consensus takes precedent over truth ever more.
Cliques of votes, memorized long lengthy rotes,
Coins, decibels and bullets settle a score.
His thoughts make him fret more, and sore,
But there's no dearth of them in him.
Poor Joe stubs on his toe,
A known pain to distract the pain within.
