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You've had
some work done,
haven't you?
Your slant
on the war
is irrelevant.
You call
this shit
poetry?
Mints won’t cure
that breath.
Are you
dulling your
senses too?
Or are
you just
being you?
Your canvases are
big; your ideas are
not.
Still married
to that loser?
All that charitable
busywork?
No cure
for your
class guilt.
You're special,
aren't you?
Bless your little heart.
Your endless
need for
reassurance. Tiresome.
You bring
out the worst
in me.
You’d better master
ingratiation strategies or
else no one will
come to your funeral. fragment.
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