Aren't We Friends?

Today, another morose and angst-ridden poem of the kind that used to go no further than a middle school student's notebook. It's a Roundel, as each of the other sad poems I've written were. The composition of it aroused some attention among my comrades. It occurred in my head during church and on paper immediately afterward in a diner. Obviously, the former session would not have drawn any notice if not for the fact that I repeatedly and animatedly counted syllables on my fingers as the sermon took place in front of us. I tried to allay any resentment by suggesting that it was God's will to move me to pen the poem, but that seemed not to cut any ice. In any case, here's the poem:

~
Aren't we friends? Please answer me true.
Tried to follow you on Twitter
Tried to friend you on Facebook too
Aren't we friends?

I know that I'm an odd critter.
What bad deeds ought I to rue?
Don't know that I could be fitter.

I really don't know what to do.
Though I say this, I'm not bitter.
If you don't like me, I don't like you.
Aren't we friends?
~