Poem: Song of the Misanthrope
Because the center of the universe can be located easily
the anthem I pen is naturally of me:
I did this and I did that,
throw in a semi-automatic rat-a-tat-tat —
and now you’ve got a song for radio,
Which rhymes conveniently with “ho,”
a word to which I’m well accustomed,
unlike instruments I’ve never strummed,
like guitars, pianos, or a silver flute.
On matters musical I’m largely mute,
But I do have anger and even angrier fans,
whose worship of my fury fulfills two plans:
To vent our angst like a spoiled child,
and to play all night with girls gone wild.
So, to wit: I’ve got a knife
I’ve got a mistress and a wife.
I gots me bitches who cause me strife
All I’m lacking is a life.
Repeat after me, repeat after me:
Hey, hip, hep, hep, hee
Hey, hip, hep, hep, hee
Don’t you wish that you were me?
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