Now and then you rear your head,
A sore, unsightly, vulgar red,
You sit so proudly on my chin,
Unwelcome neighbour to my grin.
A beacon here upon my face,
I wish you’d chose a different place,
Somewhere not so obvious,
You horrid little bump of pus.
I fight the urge to pop and pick,
The thought alone could make me sick,
All I can do is hope and pray,
I really wish you’d go away.
Each time I find you waiting there,
I make an oath and I swear,
From this point on I’ll exfoliate,
My skin shan’t be in such a state.
When my reflection shows I’m clear,
I’ll let out a joyful cheer,
Until then, to me your stuck,
You rancid, stupid, nasty ffff.