Pretentions

The Singer songwriter sounds like a machine
on sale at a large fabric store.
One that produces musical routine
by artists that fashion a premature snore.

Bequeath to me not a song of your woe
nor batter my brain with accounts of duress.
Some mirth and pleasure should a tale bestow
augmented with pornographic caress.

Great minds need more amusement than solace;
not a tune that will bring about sleeping.
Poets of pleasure, or whatever you call us,
prefer something cheerful, not rueful weeping.

So please sing a simpler, happier sound,
and stop trying to be...so fucking profound.