We know you.

The showman.

Always on the prowl

for a vowel

to feed your practice

of draping consonance

over the discord foul.

And pushing us

little ones





And what better way

than a scripted endeavor

at talent?

       "Ho hum.  In this piece,

       I appeal to fans clever enough

       to find the intimate footing

       amidst the intricate rough."

            or in Pig Latin:

       "Oh, um... In dis peece,

        I  a' peel two bananas and stuff

        to grrind dem intah mud pudding.

        A mess!  The stuff, it get crush!"

The translation is trival,


So it's story time,

glory time.


hair slicked back.

Lips - loaded guns

for attack.

Round after round,

the trophies of


pile up.

And on a plaque

that bears your fame,

your name is lost

amidst the glittered letters

while you,

quickly leech off the pain

for the next

brilliant move.

A bit of advice:

If you're sullied

with vultures' famine for verse

and with it, culture a self-feeding muse

rather than seek the advice

of a bum,

you fucking deserve the hunger

of a third-world baby

who will gladly trade in his rabies

for crumbs.

Because foaming at the mouth

with the poetic semen

you sucked off yourself

won't stop the feigning...

Go masturbate somewhere else.

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