Why is he to many, incredibly surly?
A pleasant remark often met with acute acidity.
No smile you ask, not always hostile surely?
When he hears me he turns on me, as though I’m a venomous viper.
Yet he is young, not a grumpy old man.
What will he be like, when old and grey?
I shudder to think, maybe he’ll mellow
And become a pleasant smiling old fellow.
Talking to him, is like toying with a tiger.
His mind is as sharp as a cut throat razor.
His words slice like a knife into the subject
Sensitivities spin, as though struck by laser.
Will I phone him again, and chance a chastening tirade?
I think not, because of him, I am, a little afraid.