The CENSURE

Looking through the mirror
The monster appears
Looking dim and old
Black hair turns furry

Drenched in mud,
Grandsire to blame.
Wishing not their lineage
Coursing them odds
Making no new for living
Dwelling all in censure.

Sad complaining voice of
Beggers,
Manner not for strangers.

Till and plan like termite,
Nothing to boost as excuse