David Bowie,
why do you show me
Slight disdain in my dreams
You even regret the energy spent
To express vague disapproval, it seems
It would sting much less
If your indifference would progress
Into at least a committed hate
A taunt, jive, or quip
Instead of merely a sip
Of your true opinion's state
I've done nothing to earn his irk
But even if I was a jerk
He would offer me a vexation most venerable
Perhaps the nothing I've done
Is the very means by which I've won
His jaded response to my existence in general
If only I weren't such a walking abortion in his mind
Tripping over my loathsome bedraggled umbilical chord
He'd form at least a sentence of recognition
But I'm too much waste for his taste
And if I don't make haste
To provide fodder for his point of view
To say, "Fuck you, dream David Bowie
You don't even know me"
So perhaps he'd say "fuck you, too!"
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