It is he who learns it all by rote
But cannot fathom where it goes
Who bitterly makes us fret to quote
And leads us all by hair and nose
He mumbles softly to himself
His contradictions plain to see
They're dragged down from some upper shelf
Invisible to mere you and me
The painting's beauty's lost to him
He's floundering, drowning in a sea
Of misplaced anger, with all vim
He makes up for inadequacy
[in answer to part i - a resounding "no" :)]
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