It's True, Sir -- My Poetry May Lack Finesse, But...
your so-called poetry is like a two hour long high mass
on Christmas eve
when all we wanted was Santa
though in truth the magic was gone
and we were just pretending for our parents' sake
because, i swear to god, we were there when they bought the freakin' toys
so deep down they knew we knew and we knew they knew we knew
there was no Santa
but everybody was pretending
trying to thwart the tick of time
and your poetry is also something like that --
a pretentious stab at authenticity
producing the dust-dry little vessel from which, for your sake,
we pretend to quench our thirst.