The Complainer

He was alright,
If you could tolerate
The constancy
Of his whines.
He had perfected
The bellyache
To an art form,
And made sure
Everyone had
Their fill of it.
He was seldom alone,
For squads of his ilk
Tended to congregate
So they could
Harmonize their songs
And compete for
The dubious honor
Of the best
And most inane
Ailment of the day.
What interested me
Was that his
Most fervent complaint
Was that no one
Listened to him,
And he couldn’t,
For the life of him,
Figure out why!