STICKLER

STICKLER A middle aged woman stood in front of a tillDisagreed with the total amount she had to payAnd declared, ‘I am a university computer’, rightly soWhen the inputs were added, the machine was wrong Self praised perfectionist whose brain worked overtimeWith digits like a matrix, programmed to finding faultsHer fingers danced on the keyboard like an excited childTo work out a code that will lock out any game off sleeves In their proper places, everything meticulously primedNothing else is good enough, except laid down by herAs the crow flies through air to a distant land by modesMade to strengthen the curves by steady flapping of wings The perfect scheme you hatched yesterday has maturedWith rudeness and starvation used as twin weapons of warTo humiliate and provoke the weak to anger, unlike the crowYou are rewarded with a crooked shoulder, a side effect of pride