Each syllable they Wring from my pursed lips, a hole Punched in my armor.
Your acerbic wit Grates on me like sandpaper I am still quite rough.
That bastard swagger Brings her to her knees, just like Every other time.
Unflappable, calm, Immensely practical, smooth, Crossed, rampaging bull.
I descend into The boiling stew, and pray that Finally I am steel.
Unruly sparks know Not with whom they trifle; my True name: Inferno.