CIRCUMSTANCES

Those authors whose deformities

Dictate their dour tones,

Whose place and attitude in life

Is mirrored in their bones.

Take those whose crippled limbs

Prevent them having fun,

Who rant and rave hysterically

Because they cannot run.

And what of those devoid of charm

Whose actions bear no grace.

Do people point in company,

Embarrassing each face?

Would ugliness suggest to some

That they should not be seen?

Indeed, if women shied away

They'd have good cause for spleen.

And even those of doubtful sex

Who play with their own kind,

They signify, if with regret,

A weirder turn-of-mind.

In truth, one sees how thoughts arise

In harmony with fate.

If equal justice ruled the world,

The world would have less hate.