He seems a bit familiar, as an old, worn paper tiger might
He fields more girth than mass obliques, more windblown straw than healthy hair
Is this the man who passersby have testified is such a fright?
Is what I note with biased sight a concrete statement of the truth?
Or is what others see the only valid image of a beast.
Should I reject what strangers tout, that I seem cruel, corrupt, uncouth?
That by my size and stature I appear a prisoner released?
I find my face while common stock, still yields a slight sincerity
My body, while enormous, seems less reaper than a mere robust
My stance I will admit could cite a penchant for barbarity
yet there’s a lovely pudding ‘neath this slightly flaky coffyn crust
I do avoid all mirrors; I have found they thwart my purposes
I’d rather live within a world of non-reflective surfaces