In the fickle floccules whimsical of inherent stunted minds
where delusions drive Ferraris' and the gilded are servants
if their hate stop painting pictures of doom rack and ruins
tis known they are just mere inferior mediocre observant

Like moths to flames reeking talentless blow hollow winds
losers no-marks spewing nonsenses under stones like ants
mundane journeymen and maiden oiks alongside philistines
the letdowns in low downs craving distractions with slants

No worthy or good comes from insignificants on the grinds
lacking wit or grace they faff and prattle as modern peasants
their job is hate and in searing jealousy they dribble unrefined
the pitiful community of lesser beings in malice conversance: