I am a Girly Wuss
If every time I screwed up real bad
I knew dumb luck was causing all my strife,
Then I could shrug it off and say That’s life.
And if it were my own dumb fault, then I
Could cope, accept I sucked, and not be sad.
But since I know that Hal, that vengeful god
Is always farting on me his foul miasmas,
And sticking his pointy nose into my business,
And tripping me up and foiling me at his whim
For his sick pleasure, it makes me feel snod.
No! Snod is not a word. He put it there,
Hal did, I swear. That snod is not my fault.
He also puts my feet in dung, my name in alt.
Sex.bestiality.personals, and he
Screws up my poetry, and gives me butt hair.
He takes the things I write I think are good,
And makes cliches. He throws my rhythm all to hell,
And inserts insulting phrases. Boy, do I smell.
Like that. And sometimes, when I’m not looking
He pees all over my food.
He screws me up and then he laughs at me,
And only me. He will not go away.
He tells all of my girlfriends that I’m gay,
And makes me impotent. My love’s loss
Is his hate’s profiting; my sorrow is his ecstasy.
Sometimes he makes me plagiarize. He’s never idle,
Always up to no good. He gives me poor organization skills,
And makes me write words like snod and repeat myself. He kills
My friends and my dogs. He makes irregular stanzas.
He really screwed this poem up and made it suck.
I bet he’ll even change the title.
