Mischief

Sittin, waitin, spittin, a little alliteration to illustrate to the magistrate of state,

“The state of mind you find me in is the type designed by this funeral pyre.

Drawing your ire every time they call me sire, do you desire to see the fire and be inspired?

Or do you find me a liar, with pants of fire, showing stripes of a tiger, a liger, an out of his prime fighter?

I’ve been both. I hope I don’t choke, but it’s not fair.

All I’ve got is a hope on a rope around my neck on this chair.”