Flying Beneath the Radar.

What range of ugliness invests my form: Who am I, Childe Harold, Richard III? I run the gamut in my mirror, from worm To dashing Don, from gold to camel turd. Trouble follows me if I am good Or bad, so why resist those things I should. My body settles now and then to firm And cascades back to fat with scarce a word. I am the air that passes through the tuba Without an embouchure, an ancient scuba. Spawn of Indolence, a mite of chance, I run around like Punch without his pants.