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Poem

Trouble left alone hurts no soul
Endowed with enough wisdom
To score no own goal
When trouble turns vicious in the kingdom 

Where trouble finger on the trigger of his machinegun
Slays intruders by the dozen
If wisdom devices from them run
Towards the avenger denizen

Who enjoys a repose by the busy bus
He drives at leisure
Eliciting from no intruder a fuss
That halts the flow of the pleasure

Trouble sips like a well-chilled red wine glass
To his heart’s content
Until a misguided lass of little class
Brews for trouble vats of discontent

Catalyzing him to erupt like the angriest Hawaian volcano
Spewing noxious Sulphur gases
In an inferno
That incinerates flower and tinder dry vases

To teach a salutary lesson
To learners willing enough to take heed
Of timely advice from the wise person
Who readily plants and germinates the wisdom seed

Whose fruit 
Nourishes
The recruit
Who dishes

Out love to meddlers
Enjoining them to treat trouble with the respect he deserves
From finicky fiddlers
Who trespass on trouble’s preserves and reserves.

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