Fog
Owen, are you such a berk
To think such metaphors still work
When you yourself are from the murk?
You’ve not travelled very far
And no-one knows quite who you are:
You’re the he inside a haar.
No-one thinks you’re super-duper,
When you occupy a stupor,
When you are a pure pea-souper.
Sneezing at you, I have asthma.
Really, you need brain and plasma
To help you out of your miasma.
When you read yourself in papers,
Your words as sharp as gherkins, capers,
Frankly you remain the vapours.
Don’t you ever wonder why
You’re lost inside a cloudy sky,
As solid as some nebulae?
Don’t you think it’s slightly crazy
To talk with all the power of Jay-Z
When you yourself are very hazy?
Are you so possessed of purity
Or are you filled with immaturity
To witter on about obscurity?
I know you are a humble cog
A poor and pocket demagogue,
But less of fret when you’re a fog.
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