With thinly veiled testosteronic verse, you think
it’s poetic prose, but you’re just a poetic poser

Thrusting your priapic pentameter rather erratically,
flexing your lazy wrist and tumescence emphatically

You think the louder you write, the more they will listen,
show them your manliness, force your muscle to glisten

well word slinger, words linger well

They befoul the atmosphere when the airs are put on,
and then leave an aftertaste once the postering is gone

They attempt to obfuscate your apparent inadequacies,
but each line exposes your delusional fantasies

Of a long, silver tongue and matching silver fingers,
when all you can lay is your hand on the paper

art: Selbstbildnis by Ludwig Meidner


She thought it was fantastic
her thin smile always plastic

And gained many sycophants
who just wanted in her pants

Thought their admiration real
that she had real sex appeal

Her heart’s what would truly show
hidden plots, intentions faux

She teased to keep them at bay
so she then could have her way

Rather lie than they find out
what her mind is all about

Time will make the plastic melt
she’ll cry ’bout the hand she’s dealt

Wonder where her fans have gone
when younger smiles come along