I never claimed to be the better one
I wrote the first one just for fun
To lighten up my bitter state
And make myself feel less irate

It's not your place nor his alone
To judge my work or pick a bone
My thoughts are clear, my calm regained
And all throughout one thing remained:

That most men are lowly, prurient scum
More interested in their own personal fun
Judgemental freaks who've nothing to gain
Then stroke their own egos as they cause other's pain

"A kill!" they yell as they hold up a head
"A woman!" they grunt as they crawl into bed
"A poem?" they all ask as they all try to read
"More gold!" they shout as they shrug off in greed

Not every poem must be in four lines
Just like every man won't have their own spine
And so you all rush to be one exception
To my harshly written and bitter perception

As for my meter, it is my own beat
I don't stick to a form, I write with heat
You blockheads all think you have to be right
When it comes to things you know only a mite

I could care less if his was much better
Though you should soon learn 'What is spelling and grammar?'
You are one voice and just as I once before said
I don't care for your words. You're better off dead.





Penned by my hand on the 4th of Ultio, in the year 466 AD.