How could I write with any sincerity,
knowing my readers are so smart?
To say the honest things I want always to say,
knowing exactly how they’ll react?
They’re so so smart,
so stinkin’ smart
to pick up what they suspect
I’m puttin’ down
when I’m so so cliche,
so stinkin’ cliche
to have written so easy a thing
to figure out.
Perhaps my readers are so so dumb
not to look a little harder?
Perhaps they are, in fact, much wiser than I
to suppose that I’m not that deep?
But when I’m howling with devious delight
at the glop I’ve been practicing
and the pity comes rolling in from all sides,
is that proof of a job well done
or fodder for the guilt of a liar?