She now says she forgives me. Trumpets loud this seeming virtue.
Shades of Pecksniff and Uriah Heep! It’s her at fault not me.
A keen and subtle weapon fits her hand, perfect to pursue
Her sly warfare. A bland mask hides her cancerous enmity.
What damns me is to be her husbands friend and that from way back.
This then constitutes me threat and subject to covert attack.
Nothing’s really open, always she protests my good at heart,
Sorrowing when I reject the loving counsel she’d impart.
Tell me! Wouldn’t you if all your moves were caste in the worst light?
Patient protest or no protest, Either way it proves she’s right.
My protest seeks to hide my guilt, silence shows I’ve no defence.
The baseness of my nature is an axiom. I just can’t win and hence
Must slough off oblique skirmishing, all that scathing rubbishing
Of those who share my views, and overlook those eyebrows rising
In expression of disgust. Her spouse and I have business ties.
Also from way back. Can they hold up still against the artful lies
She whispers? Our front, outwardly polite, now sustains a crack.
She’s quite upset to think I’d charge her guilty of attack
And, of course, she’s not. I’m ALWAYS taking things in the wrong way.
But, saintly example, she forgives the cruel things I say.
I could cut my loses, sell out, walk away. At that I jib.
Regretfully, it’s much to late to give Adam back his rib.