Colin F. Jones


I do myself suffer from a rage;
It has no purpose, nor a target clear
Tis as a Tiger restricted in a cage
And always is my wife so very near.
What right have I to crease like this my head;
Abuse the air with foul and vulgar word?
Tis every moment that my wife would dread
For these rare tantrums are indeed absurd.
Post Traumatic Stress, or so they say;
It comes and goes like a will-o-wisp
But this excuse I try to throw away
Lest my own effort fails to resist.
For if I let this Devil rule my brain,
What of God will my poor soul retain?