The Niggle Bloke with worry beads
And a sack of apprehensions
Stood woefully in misery
With assorted sad intentions
Touchy things to think about
Self-inflicted poor excuses
In states of blue confusions
That uneasy reproduces
Gyrating on a crazy carousel
To the squeal of groaning moans
Left frozen in unwillingness
As getting anywhere postpones
Burdens though not features
Are symptoms of a life in strife
Tightly wound like shackle string
Slackened by a well-honed knife
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