Those unfeeling eyes that look upon thee,
That cast wrathful doubt on thy downcast state.
But why? Can ye find any fault in me
That ye look down on this man’s sorry fate?
Cold and bitter is the monster,
Created by the world’s impress.
They who look down are but fools that stutter,
For I am who I am, no more, no less
Speak not of judgment then, ye who mutter.
A monster has no heart, but this one has,
Can a beast love as a true man may do?
Certainly not! For while both man and beast pass,
It takes a true man to love, to love true.
A monster I may be to those who see,
Yet a friend to those who truly love me.

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