It Ain’t Art

I don’t recall when you became

The dumbest guy in the room.

I always knew that you were lame,

But such dumbness I did not assume.

So now you’ve lost your sincerity,

And gave it to the liberal fools.

You must have given up your liberty;

Following the idiots’ set of rules.

And I remember as a child,

You were slow and emotional.

I’d wonder about retarded mild,

Figuring you were merely dull.

And now here we are miles apart

With twilight at our doors.

Your writing! Well, it certainly ain’t art.

But the hate and ignorance are really yours.

I should feel sorrow, I suppose,

As our time comes to a close;

But your words of hate do expose,

The reality of your liberal prose.

Yet, as I read your ignorant lines,

With no truth to touch your heart;

I feel some need to send you rhymes,

In hopes the hate will soon depart.

Perhaps this comes from knowledge known,

That sometimes fools get smart;

And turn away from stupidity they’ve sown

And embrace a truthful heart.