When young I truly had no inkling
that I was but incipient
My alarm bell was never tinkling
while acted out my idiot
Traits that might disenchant
were so far constrained
My inner sycophant
kept grinning harebrained
Pathetic but hadn’t been in a rush
to question much my attitude
Middle age laid bare with horrid blush
my erstwhile lack of rectitude
Seems still that part of my essence
might consist of channeling
in blabbering omnipresence
my hapless inner changeling
It ain’t what I would like to see
or not who I prefer to be
although afraid it’s somehow me
from whom I’m unable to flee