OK. In spirit of fairness and remorse, here's third-person Ward:
Delusion is the Wellspring of Denial
Here’s Mr. Ward: a fond and foolish man
who somehow has convinced himself he sings
better than angels sing, although his croak
could gladden no heart except a bullfrog-wife’s.
He’s proud that he can cook, yet turds like you —
it all comes out the same brown in the end,
and even roses damasked (as it were)
cannot quite mask the stench that of him flows.
When Mr. Ward wakes of a morning drear,
he dons the cap-and-bells and dreams of sun.
He transmutes everything of somber hue
by hoping light is lovely, loving light.
In argument he’s not be outdone,
not any fault admits, nor lacks for faith,
the while ignoring utterly the truth
that his true weakness is excess of strength.
So Mr. Ward strides corridors, alone,
deep in the dusty mind that he calls home,
glimpsing, through rain-streaked attic windows, what
he cannot have, and cannot understand.
(robt)
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