I know you think you're right in all this,
but look at the facts for a minute.
You tell me how my poems lack emotions,
yet you aren't even a poet.
Oh, you pretend to be one,
you slop your words down on paper,
pronounce it amazing
the dribble that it is
And tell me that I couldn't write to save my soul.
I wish you'd shut up for a moment
and just reread the sentence,
where your whorish ambitions are stowed,
I know the truth here,
It's plain to see
You're looking for something to call your own.