I saw your girl again––you left her at the six train. She walked twenty-two blocks while you were up on Broadway. Not a kiss goodbye, not an offer to pay so she could take the train. But you’re feeling okay––now you’re at the opera, mingling with socialites, making dirty small talk. You talk yourself off––oh my, you’re so quick! You can’t see past the end of your dick.
You think this party is for losers because nobody knows you, so you drag your girl out, tell her that her night’s through. You know you’re the coolest. Everybody loves you, everyone respects you. Gurls with half their heads full are lining up to sex you. Everybody wants you, but I know you’re a waste.
And every time I see you it’s the same old game. The world is not a lecture hall; we didn’t all get born to hear you talk. My method’s gonna knock you down off your self-important peak. You know I’m very sore displeased with your heathen ease. Besides, your ugly is the store-bought kind––you can find it anywhere. You’ve never meant anything to anyone, and you expect us all to care. But my ugly is the hideous kind––it’s the truth you cannot face: you do not deserve her; all you do’s abuse her. She knows you’re an asshole; I know you’re a loser. You are a waste.