What's the deal with this thing called Mean,
a feeling we all know when anger squints the eyes;
a built-in emotion stirring action and reaction?
Are we dependent on Mean or the other way around,
forced just enough dark or robbed just enough light,
or is the answer simply everyone's own experience?
If enough of us visit Venom when it's not calling,
each bring along a potent story of smiles,
extract illness from Poison's hurting through mean action,
spark each beaker one mean boil while safe 'n' sound,
and pour some tale of yours in as these combine,
results lift a memory up to view when clearly zen.
From us chemists' mean mixtures we all see
stories dealing with lowest of fun times
fuse millions more burning times to Mean's madness,
than smartly distanced ones freed who stray from Frown,
a poor bust leech's heart poured out of beacon light,
tries it must to snatch anyone into its eerie clinch.
A tough love sentence handed down calmly
keeps things balanced so this study won't run wild,
from wilted stories still surfing inside Biting's mad lips,
to starving Mean hunting more sunrays to down,
cores flood with a hot form of keep in mind:
send up century love or remain toxic near each friend.