The title is already a small joke. "I beg to differ" is one of the most polite ways English has of saying "you're wrong," and its two verbs pull in opposite directions: *beg* kneels, *differ* squares up. Dave Bonta's six lines take that mismatch of humility and defiance and turn it inward.
The first stanza reads like a question, though it has no question mark and no capital letter: "who among nonconformists / expect to have their day." The paradox sits in the phrase "have their day," which is about as conventional an expectation as there is. It promises that patience will be rewarded, that the overlooked will be vindicated, that a turn in the spotlight is coming. A nonconformist is defined by refusing the common way, yet here the nonconformists are waiting in line for the common payoff. The grammar adds to the irony. "Who" is followed by the plural "expect," so we picture a crowd of people who all pride themselves on being unlike the crowd. The line break after "nonconformists" leaves that long, prefix-heavy word alone for a moment, a seven-syllable mouthful that sounds a little pompous, which may be the point.
The second stanza narrows from "nonconformists" to "my." The speaker stops observing other people's contradictions and confesses his own: "my words keep differing / with my lips." Words and lips normally work as a team, since lips are how words get out. Here they behave like two parties in a dispute. The phrase "lip service" hovers behind the image, meaning an agreement spoken but not meant. The lips go through the polite motions, and the words underneath refuse to go along. One way to read the whole poem is that the title is what the lips say, the courteous formula, while the words of the poem keep contradicting it. The quiet verb "keep" matters too. This is a habit, not a single act of rebellion, and no one ever gets their day because the argument never settles. The title's "differ" also grows into "differing," and the added *-ing* makes the disagreement continuous.
The sound of the poem backs this up. There is no rhyme and no punctuation, which fits a poem about not conforming, but nothing about the rebellion is loud. The lines shrink as they go, from seven syllables to six, then six, then three. The last line, "with my lips," is short and nearly whispered, like an aside. It also uses the body it names. The *w*, the *m* and the closing *p* of "with my lips" all involve the lips shaping or pressing together, so you feel the words differing with your mouth as you say them. Earlier, "my words keep differing" has the same labial texture in *m*, *w*, *p* and *f*. The sounds of the poem are made by the very lips it describes as unreliable.
The poem's lasting interest lies in how much it fits into so little space. In about a dozen words it sets up a joke about dissenters who want a reward, then reveals that the speaker is no exception, and that his dissent runs right through himself. That is a more honest picture of disagreement than the usual heroic one. Instead of a brave individual standing against a conforming world, it shows a divided mind where saying one thing and meaning another is a daily condition. The humor is self-directed, and the poem never claims to know which side, words or lips, is telling the truth. It leaves that question open, much as it leaves its first sentence open without a question mark.
For a student reader, the poem is a good lesson in how much a title can do. Without "I beg to differ" above it, the second stanza would be only an odd image. With it, the poem becomes a loop in which a polite phrase is spoken, doubted, and disagreed with by the words that follow it.