Classic Poem

Oh , I'm a sullen misanthrope,
A hater of my kind;
Man's faults, as thro' a microscope,
Wax large within my mind.
Each sin that others trifling think
To me is great, indeed;
And crimes from which most people shrink
My taste for misery feed.

In every eye I plainly see
The evil lurking there;
Beneath each gentle voice to me
Appears a guileful snare.
In hand-clasps smooth hypocrisy
I always can detect,
And e'en a hat doffed courteously
But envy doth reflect.

All tenderness is selfishness,
That veils some low desire;
And purity to me is less
Than vileness in the mire.
And lofty thoughts, he, he, ho, ho,
What sport they give to me!
Their sire is Vanity, I know!
Still lives the Pharisee!

Each weakness human nature shows
Is meat and drink for me,
And o'er man's many wrongs and woes
I laugh in hearty glee!
'Twas Malice who wrote Friendship's laws,
With Spite, her sister elf!
I hate my fellow-man because
I'm hateful to myself!