Don't call me a bloody nuisance (a kind of a poem)

This is not exactly what I would call a poem, it is more of a meditation, self-induced during the last sleepless night when Sasha was showing the world how frustrated he is by screaming in the empty hall and banging the door at 3am.

Don't call me a bloody nuisance, Madam,
When I dance and laugh in the shop.
The shelves whirl with me, the biscuits smile,
Your shopping cart has stopped my dance,
Who's a bloody nuisance then?

Don't call me a f...ing idiot, Sir,
When I flap my arms in the coffee shop,
I'm excited at the sight of a million of bubbles in my coke.
Did you know how many bubbles exactly hide in my glass? No?
Who's a f...ing idiot then?

Don't say I have no manners, old gent,
When I scoop the ice cream with fingers.
It feels good and tastes better this way.
You farted in front of my Mum in the queue,
Who has no manners then?

Don't tell me I am a spoilt little brat, strange woman,
When I have a meltdown in the train station.
That passing train could have taken me to the faraway land.
I saw your daughter stick a chewed gum to the bench.
Who's a spolt little brat then?

Don't laugh at me, "Non capisce niente", young Italian boy,
I do understand what you said.
I can speak in my mind, but words die without being said,
Did you hear my inner voice? No?
Who doesn't understand much then?

Don't scream at me, Mum, when I hit my head
 And bang the doors in the night.
You know I love you,
And I know that you know,
But I need to vent my feeling and angst.

I am who I am,
I watch, I observe,
No criticism passes my lips.
Look around you at this "perfect" world,
Now who is the first to throw a stone at me?