Note to Self

And so comes the clichéd
'Woe is me!'
That I've heard so many times before
From this personified Bagpipe.
Every noise from you is a whine
Because you can never get your own way.

A toddler at heart
With the tantrum gland unsevered -
Still in tact.
Though you're more subtle now
With less screaming
Less tears streaming,
But a shoulder like a Polar cap
And the ability to ignore for days.

Your head is hotter
Than a summer in New York
But you can be colder than a winter
In the Antarctic.

Oh, Melancholy is your middle name
And Angst your first.
Why don't you do us all a favour
And make like cheese:
Mature.