Who Might This Be?

Sad the vain man who never ran
Smoothing his mind with an oil can

Whose ideas never could be budged
Never made slippy and never fudged

Never sweet thinking in our cleaner air
But somehow trapped under the stair

Never alive to each morning’s story
Trapped in a vortex whirling in fury

Finding grave fault so passionately
My God! In the mirror, can that be me?