The curmudgeon's a sharp man, a wily, mean codger,
His handle's just right for a curt, artful dodger;
A miserable man in a state of high dudgeon,
He trumpets his stand about things he won't budge on.
He digs in his heels, and makes mock of your whinging,
Destroying your protests with words that are singeing.
He trashes all reason as his arguments burgeon,
He cuts your defense with the skill of a surgeon.
Half-truths are his weapons, high mountains of word-sludge,
Obfuscation's his pleasure, cementing his grudge.
When you're backed in a corner, beginning to hedge,
You'll cry out for mercy, a gift he won't pledge.
The ironic cause for your pleas and your cudgeling?
He revels in fighting and enjoys all your fudging.
He's happiest when he sees victory tangible,
And loves to destroy anyone who is frangible.