Deep in the flesh of Jekyll, he was there,
as happy with himself as with a gem
priceless and pure. For him folks didn’t care–
and he was happy not to care for them.
What gave them any right, then, to condemn
as crimes the acts his nature generated?
He didn’t even have to say ahem.
He turned aside, content if not elated.
Hypocrisy was what he fiercely hated–
and happily he made himself sincere.
For seeking satisfaction, they upbraided
his recklessness — but he could smell their fear.
He knew he was he real deal. On that day,
the fiction Jekyll melted quite away.