Legerd is the crooked tree

You wonder how well upon my bones
My flesh doth drape.
Is it worn like a fine suit,
Tailored well and cut to fit?
Or perhaps it hangs ill-formed,
Too tight here, too loose there,
Like clothing that is received second hand.
Do not ask me,
For my opinion was long ago molded and set,
And not for the better.
For mine eyes doth look upon their holder
As if seeing a reflection cast by a broken mirror.
Let the blind decide I say,
For a fairer decision they could render,
Then one by a mind bound in youth
With chains whose links were forged
Of cruel words and deeds.
Yet, as light fails and shadow deepens,
It may be allowed that I cut not too harsh a figure.
My nose is but a little crooked;
My hair, though lifeless, still covers well;
My limbs, all be they thin, are not disproportionate,
And my flesh is healthy despite its pallor…
Hmmm, no.
On second thought I am on first correct.
If beauty is just skin deep,
Then my hide is not nearly thick enough.
But do not frown nor fret over this single case
Of the plague which infects so many more.
For in truth, if tears need be wept,
Then weep for the interior,
For it is has been marred far more tragically,
Than ever was the exterior.

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Inspired by Julie’s post in Michael Kelso’s: I think this has been done before… question, I have to ask:

What is your favourite comedy sketch?

This is mine.