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Fate of the Scorner
I hopped the afternoon bus to town
stopping at this, and every, corner.
In front, I heard a balding crown
spewing the words of a scorner.
He rides this same bus every day
as though he has some place to be.
He spews his hate along the way
to any who listen to his spree.
One day he failed to be on board,
the man who is so full of hate.
I wondered if he fell on his sword
and, himself, became his own fate.
An illness of the mind they say
can stir a person to things inane.
To those who don't hear the sway,
his acts and words resound insane.
Copyright ©
Linda Alice Fowler
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