Some lost their scruples in the war, some misplaced them in a bar.
Others left them while smoking crack and now they’ll never get them back.
She once had an ounce of them, but expelled it when she coughed up phlegm.
He never had them and never will; he’s cheerful, see, to hurt and kill.
Should you have scruples, keep them well, else life become a living hell.
If you don’t like poems that rhyme, let’s speak on scruples another time.
I know. It’s pretty bad, but sometime I just like writing bad poetry. Sometime, it’s all I can do.