Ode to False Perfection


Mr. Perfect arrives, exquisite Ms. Ideal, by his side,

See how they stand, such flawless poise,

No sound of dissent, not one single noise.

They sashay cross the floor, in symphonic stride,

A nod here, a smile there, as they greet false fans,

While waving their sanctimonious hands.

As if in review, no hair out of place,

All lessor beings must bow low to their stature,

Hiding the fact, that we all see the fracture.

As I turn to observe their opposite face,

Glaring vision attacked my eyes,

I’ve never imaged pants with rear flies.

A chuckle I buried, if just to save grace,

Mr. Perfect waddled, bowed legs were a sight,

Ms. Ideal no better, her brown trail a blight,

As they pranced toward the door, in regal fashion,

I thought to myself, my sins no greater,

Then those who would judge to call me a hater.

So I say unto those who wish to cash in,

Keep your nose to the sky,

Kiss my ass, that’s my passion.

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