A Sickness

Distaste, broken, scattered may be I;

Moreover my uncanny state of wry;

They know me playful, joyous and shy;

Least one knows how masks cry!

He came, he saw, he conquered,

With the play those emotions ended,

He has his fans in number hundred,

Here I lay just sombered.

I've got many puddings to pick;

Instead a memory makes me sick;

Could never share neither pick;

At last I've learned the stars trick.