[Text beneath the cut.]
There is a certain prickly sort
who takes every tiny thing to heart;
an oversight, a brief aside,
all seem aimed to prick his pride.
His pride becomes his daily chapel,
every slight recalled in ritual;
candles lit to brand his wounds,
epitaphs writ for rivals' tombs.
His tears announce his sensitivity.
His pain acclaims his superiority.
But since his foes do not atone
he suffers, righteously, alone.
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