I am a man of Hate,

Which is not very great,

Sadly it is my fate;

I hope that if I wait

I shall change my state.

I fear it is too late,

The condition is innate,

Repellent to any mate;

I'll never get a date

Unless I find some bait!

But what about charming Kate

Whom I met when I was eight?

She and I both loved to skate

And play with chalk and slate.

She talked in quite a spate,

Her torrent would not abate.

Could she be why nerves grate

As I curse with slouching gait

Or squirt my zits on a plate?

My "friends" are quite irate!

They locked me in a crate

And loaded me up as freight.

Customs found me at the gate;

I immediately began to relate

How I am a man of hate,

Which is not at all very great

But sadly it is my fate.

They refused to listen or wait

But mocked my confined state,

Complaining it was late

And my condition clearly innate.

They commanded I never mate,

Nor even seek a date;

Instead I became their bait

To lure the trustful Kate

Who would pass nearby at eight

While they all dined on skate

From dishes of polished slate.

The rain poured in a spate,

The torrent would not abate;

We huddled around the grate

As the girl with the swaggering gait

Dropped a fish upon my plate.

Her manners made me irate.

The café was just a crate

Wedged amongst old freight

Not many yards from the gate.

Kate saw me and entered to relate

How I was a man of hate.

The customs thought this was great,

They caught her and sealed her fate.

I shouted that they should wait,

They laughed in the name of The State:

For lawyers it was far too late,

And they knew her sins were innate.

I insisted she was my mate,

"Take me, release her till a later date."

But they recalled I was their bait,

The villain of the plot was Kate:

Of the men she'd smuggled I was 'eight'.

She was handcuffed as they devoured their skate.

Rain poured from the roof of slate,

While Kate chattered in a spate;

I knew she would never abate

Till the charges were thrown in the grate.

The girl with the swaggering gait

Came to our table and took my plate;

As I had not finished I was quite irate 

And in my anger I threw a fish-crate.

"We need that for tomorrow's freight!”

The port's manager had come from the Gate.

He sat beside me and began to relate

How in his opinion I was a Man Of Hate.

I agreed and said it was not very great

But what, I asked, might be his fate?

He stormed off and told me to wait,

I could tell that he was in quite a state,

No doubt because he knew he was late;

Punctuality for him had to be innate.

I begged the girl become my mate;

She hooted and demanded a date.

I asked if she was using me as bait,

She replied that I was annoying Kate.

"How about tomorrow at eight?"

She agreed to a meal of anything but skate.

Kate heard and glared and began to slate,

Her abuse flowed in an incessant spate.

The customs did everything her tongue to abate,

Her fury kindled the fire in the grate

As the girl with the bum-wiggle gait,

Disappeared into the kitchen with my plate.

All of us were now fuming and irate,

I wanted to stuff Kate in a crate

And as with me, send her off as freight,

Or deliver her swiftly to Heaven's Gate

Where in front of St Peter she could finally relate

How she had turned me into a Man of Hate!

The customs men bellowed, "That's not very great,

If you murder her you'll suffer a horrible fate."

"Okay, okay," I pleaded that we wait,

We calmed ourselves down from our turbulent state.

The sun had set, it was now very late;

Are these foul moods for everyone innate?

The Chief Customs Officer kept calling me "mate,"

I teased him and asked if he too wanted a date.

Like a trout in a river he took to the bait,

He would have struck me except for Kate

Who produced a wafer-thin "After Eight,"

A perfect following to a meal of skate.

The door flew open and my friends irate

Shouted and yelled in a relentless spate;

They hurled Kate's chocolates in the grate,

They chanted aloud without abate,

Smashing here and there a plate.

Not even the girl with the curious gait

Could drive my friends back out to the gate.

I tried to hide behind a crate,

They saw me and shouted, "There's our freight!"

The customs men fled under a hail of slate;

Kate and I were rescued, sad to relate,

By those who dubbed me, The Man Of Hate.

What now, I wondered would be my fate?

* THE END *