Devotion through Abuse and Other Oxymorons

Despondent, engraven by heartache
The vendor's machine spills no more.
Verily, we verify our accents to those
Who would steal our chocolate,
But are quicker to condemn
The meek flower girl. She
Cannot understand our scorn;
Neither can I. Neither can I.
Even when context is assumed, drawn
And quartered, the feeble voice chirps
Its support. No conviction. No conviction.
Rather that we rely upon the hospitality
Of strangers, than treat our friends to
An ungratefulness fit only for
Kings.