The Ill-Begotten Mirror

He worked with all his expertise
To make a master’s mirror;
And into it, he tried to squeeze
A way to see things clearer

And as the years went by, he gazed
Into its surface proudly –
While doing so, he often praised
His own work, rather loudly

But years went by; he saw that he
Looked horrid through its lens,
Some sort of awful parody,
No class, no soul, no friends

He grew to hate the mirror for
The ugliness he saw:
He’d made it fine – now it was poor,
A giant loathsome flaw

He threw it out one summer day
With satisfaction grim;
He hated what he saw in it –
For it reflected
Him

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