Of Course Your Poetry Is Better Than Theirs

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Bill Broun

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Yes I wrote this hapless song
And I wrote it just for you
But I could build ten shrines for you
And your heart would never move

All my life I've had these poems
They're not exactly Keats
All of my rejections from you
Would fill up Google Sheets

Remember when you slashed your wrists
And declared yourself an artist
I felt kind of jealous of you
I wasn't the smartest

Look at you now, scribbling verse
Like Mary Oliver
Writing odes on seashells
And sonnets and villanelles

You boast about your simple voice
How you're William Carlos Williams
One day you'll tabulate
Red wheel-barrows full of millions

But lyrics are such shit today
It isn't very hard
To sound like you have half a brain
Oh, the indie-rock avante-garde

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