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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