The Troll, a mighty man is he, Hidden in the Net's fog. A marauding thing who lies somewhere, Beneath the level of a dog.
The muscles of his skinny mind and arms, Stick out like knots in cotton, Spawned with problems of the mind, And can only be viewed as misbegotten.
Slithering around like a pond-life thing, This parasite he sucks the blood with fatal sting. Of other’s hurt he seeks to cause. Will he ever learn, or ever pause?
A slimy, slithering, sorry type is he, Deserving only of contempt. Far too blind by ego’s drive and lack of seeing, Hate alone controls this moronic being.
So turn deaf ear to his regard. Ignoring him can't be too hard. But pity not his poor attempt, Just treat him justly: with contempt.
