Where the delusions of youth have not been freed

The writer sits at his desk, his kitchen table

And clatters away at the keys.

Ah, great laughter will conceive

With thoughts of grandeur, culminated praise.

The writer washes his hands, and feeds his cat

The writer thinks, with bricks of golden thoughts

His words form with the guise of a king’s speech

Heavens open, and the rains fall upon him

As it does anyone else.

But harder, and colder and with such significant force that he knows

He is the chosen voice of his generation.

He has been spit on, by a god,

Is that dog slobber on his pant cuff?

And with fingers like chickens with diamond beaks

Glistening from one key to the next, he pecks

Relieving the minds of millions.

Ho Ho.