Sir Wierdfellow

Here I'll start and admit that I am anything but normal.
Having the eyes of an angel but the soul of a demon,
Perfectly matched by a chesire grin,
But lacking in its craftiness.

I am Sir Wierdfellow,
The great yet weak,
For I fear my nerves are as far gone as my mind.
Stab my arm with a fork,
and not a scream will pass my lips,
But a fist would shatter your jaw.
This violence would not be from pain,
But anger, for it would ruin my slieve tattoos!

Sir Wierfellow is not my name,
But rather a title for me to wear.
Much like tank, for my ever famous skill of tanking through drinks.
Or dumbass, for the things I do after tanking those drinks.

But all and all, Sir Wierdfellow is arguably the nicest,
Seeing as though I'm wierd AF but also nice and elegant to everyone
That doesn't tick me off.
All I am is another brick in the wall,
Just a poor boy from a poor family.