I am right, you are wrong

For ‘I am right and you are fucking wrong’

to penetrate the pores of who you please,

it must take form in that of a stern gaze,

appropriately timed and humour-strong.

Pupils must quiver as they hold the gimp

to ransom for their poor temerity,

long enough to question their sanity

but broken just before they lose their wits.

Coldbrew resentment. Hide it in the fridge

inside a high-grade-security safe

and lock it twice. Unlock only amidst

trivial rows that beg for the stern gaze.

But like salt, or sugar, ‘too much’ is a thing:

there is a sanctimonious time and place.