The Good Aren't They Put Upon Poem by Mark Heathcote

Sitting, complaining, motionless
Fishwife's tongues moved, wagging
About jobs, I'd done, completed
That in their tired loathsomeness-
Scorning would have never been done.

About the catch, I'd caught they'd never won
No matter their position or time of service
Only their self disillusionments in me personally
Are my concessionaire gifts of surprise?
When looking I found no friendship in their eyes.

Oh, it's true, the good aren't they put upon
Kindness is it a weakness,
Oh, how the weary must toil on
And shoulder the world
Whether spring's icy talons, its harpoon barbed spite.

Or in their autumns fall the last warm rays of sunlight
Is it a weakness to be grievous ill of mind?
Is it a weakness to be ill with this humankind?
Is it wrong to put a drawbridge in front of my heart?
Is it wrong, I've hand-dug a mote around my soul?

My hearts a hard small sloe fruit still bitter to the core
Thorns are on all sides, but what a sweet taste is put in-store stored.
Oh my eyes they're like medieval castle loopholes
They've looked into hell found employment there
They've listened to the larks and ravens
They've listened to the meadowlarks and ravens caw, call
Till my laughter fills filled the air.

Oh, oh, oh, it's true, the good aren't they put upon
Kindness is it a weakness,
Oh, how the weary must toil on
And shoulder the world
Whether spring's icy talons, its harpoon barbed spite.

Or in their autumns fall the last warm rays of sunlight
Is it a weakness to be grievous ill of mind?
Is it a weakness to be ill with this humankind?
Is it wrong to put a drawbridge in front of my heart?
Is it wrong, I've hand-dug a mote around my soul?
Oh, it's true, the good aren't they put upon
Kindness is a weakness, but not for me or you.