We Can All Write A Book, Mate

I’m not jealous

Of your work

Your sales

Or, so called, talent

But you’re just so rude,

Now with your shitty attitude

Becoming more

And more apparent

Oh, Please

Forgive my hyperbolic phrase

He said

‘Tis the burden of the poet

You’re just a pretentious cunt

She said

And don’t I fucking know it

I know

I’m nothing special

But then again

Neither are you

And
just
get
on
with
it

It’s
not
like
everyone
else

Isn’t
also
wading
through
shit