Pretend piety,
Of the temporary variety,
Placed in a shine of "I am better than you high society".

Your words are intelligent,
Your words hold weigh,
But my sentiment makes your feeble words tremble and shake.

It has taken years of mental *******,
To develop the concentration,
To compose these compilations of rhythmic translations!

You think you are the victor,
You feel you have won,
But this is no mere battle, it's a ******* war...son...your pain has just begun.

Because we don't need five minutes alone,
To crush any poem,
But reaching the masses and in between is where, I, call home.

Love and pain are parts of the game, but so are other emotions,
So merely beware, your pen must dip a little deeper into far vaster oceans,
If you think you can contend to my level or quotient...

My friend....