The Throng of Thirty-Five

More cheeks have tasted the front

Then the back of my hand.

But make no mistake my friend:

In my few years as a man,

I been taught equally to slander

As I have learned to flatter.

And the quick sting of the tongue bests the shiv,

In cutting the thick-skinned to tatters.

War's no longer won,

With swords or a gun.

But with the corrupting seeds

Sown by a bladed, forked tongue.

Friend, please tell me you believe

That I wasn't always this way.

Tell me you know that it happened to me

That I got caught in their scheming array.

Please remember me how I once was.

For once my face was soft and unclean,

I wore my girls on my arm

My heart always upon my sleeve.

I know not whence this way I came,

Or how. Or why. But just the same,

Pray my friend not for the front face

Warm and soft, but venom-laced.