In my
battle with the intellectual
I have
always been ineffectual
to the
degree I am transparent with rage
just
so blindly they offer bilious as sage
they
belittle the reader with their pedantry
and
quotes themselves oh so preciously
It scraps at my hide to an excess degree
caught
between my brightness and ignominy.
(which
I always spell wrong ignomy
having
learnt my spelling but dimly,)
When
the scholarly elite write a 3-tome set
and
call it a synopsis, I find it so wet
that I
can't help but open my sorry YAP
and
look like a whiner, ah, there is the trap.
It
isn't your blindness I want to explain
it is
just when you puff yourself I feel pain
For if
of all my disabling traits I were free
that
blow-hard/poetry expert/know-it-all would be ME.
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