by Felix Fojas

Song, do not fret
And feel insecure
That you are not
As classy and witty
As genteel and suave
As elegant and epic
As some of the other
Poems I’ve penned.
I am unnerved by
Rhyming tantrums,

Chest-beating lines,
And hair-pulling gigs.
It’s not your fault,
Son, it’s all mine.
Perhaps a wily
Gremlin sabotaged
My inspiration
While writing you?
Or as a lame
Literary excuse,

Say my bardic
Assembly-line is
Far from perfect
And you turned out
To be a fluke,
A factory defect.
Or if you want me
To put it the other
Way around, Son,
Just say that the rest

Of my brood are
A flash-in-the-pan
And you’re the sole
Exception, which makes
You quite unique,
A rara avis, in your
Utter mediocrity. So raise
Your bowed head up
And walk tall. We all know
You’re small and there’s no

Need to brandish your
Napoleonic complex.
Just do your lousy
Song and dance act.
If there is no applause,
Just bite your lips
And shut the fuck up
Before I lose my
Poetic cool and temper,
And disown you forever.

Los Angeles
Jan. 21, 2012