Mirror, mirror on the wall,
is he there anymore?
That “bundle of joy” from Beacon Hill,
who seems to think, he has to kill,
all the things, of a broken scheme,
that are past control, so why so mean?
For if he is to continue, this in head,
it would seem that; Ben Selfridge is dead.
He now makes a pub, his second home,
to get ideas, for his “necessary” tome,
far from the scrumping of Nicholson Street,
where next to go, on those weary feet?
Another ramble, without a cause?
Or to read his words, to display some force?
And as he recites, his ego is fed,
though a voice will say, “Ben Selfridge is dead!”
Sociability, hangs in the balance,
for he indeed, hypocritically shakes hands,
as with “palatial” thought, he remains alone,
in a crowd of smiles, he always disowns,
he is not perfect, he should look back in the mirror,
to be made more humble, to make things clearer,
though ardent judgment, he cannot put to bed,
stubbornness will state that: Ben Selfridge is dead.
Maybe, in these past three stanzas,
he can read through, to make better stances,
life goes on, a person has their phases,
but he does not have to live by; poisoned phrases,
so get rid of the timid, become a tower of strength,
for “walking talking orangutan, you do not know the length,
of the time you have”, a higher power said,
in response; he screamed back, “I AM NOT YET DEAD!”