Classic Poem

The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear
My father (to my praise, not to my shame,)
Will make him live more than Methusalem;
Of this I've long ago been made aware.
Now tell me, Nature, if my hate 's not fair.
A glass of some thin wine not worth a name
One day I begged (he has whole butts o' the same,)
And he had almost killed me, I declare.
" Good Lord, if I had asked for vernage-wine!"
Said I; for if he'd spit into my face
I wished to see for reasons of my own.
Now say that I mayn't hate this plague of mine!
Why, if you knew what I know of his ways,
You'd tell me that I ought to knock him down.