We all know it, but pretend what we write is genius
Like we're special and our words should mean something

We're a bunch of narcissistic idiots
And we all believe our **** doesn't stink
but there are green waves flowing off of our ink

And all the fresh ideas have turned rotten
Gelatinous gunk that's been long since forgotten

Nothing we say matters

But we keep spitting and shouting anyway

Huffing and puffing until we turn blue
Hoping our words will reach and inspire you

But poetry is a dying art
And poets are idiots