Nice guys, sprawling noodle-brains,
flimsy, frightened weiner-heads
holding grudges, hanging back
pouting on the ground with your hands out-
you are not the prizes you think you are.
(Though you don’t even think you are.)
(I certainly don’t think you are.)
I’ve seen you cast your line
with honey-rotted flesh,
then dynamite the lake in a fury
and I think you don’t know
why I’m laughing.
(But I think you know why I’m laughing.)
(I certainly will always be laughing.)
My God, have your fathers abandoned you?
Has your jealousy turned you astray?
For the Faramirs of the world
have no easier lot,
those upstanding few
who get what they get,
undeserved at first,
and then get what they get,
so deserved in the end,
without a sound.
And you wonder, oh you wonder
when your turn will come,
who will wrest valor from your softened hands,
who will hand you a sword and say “fight for me,”
who would give you half that chance.
(You don’t really even want half that chance.)
(You’ll never get half that chance.)