I don’t like the tone of that engine.
I don’t care for the cut of your jib
The colours that make up your palette,
Or the ink that flows from your nib.

Your reason to me sound like excuses,
Devoid of a single attempt
At anything remotely productive
Yet you hold the whole world in contempt.

You strut like an arrogant peacock
Feathers all plumped up with pride.
With an ego that’s bruised like an apple
Eccentric vision off to one side.

So brief your fleeting existence
What beauty, some horror, much pain.
The squandered gifts you were given
Washed away with yesterday’s rain.