Mozart's position might be granite,

But mine is golden, when I pan it;

Chopin may have been a gallant,

But I as a critic have more talent;

Auden celebrated as a poem,

Until I decided to outgrow him

No matter how like God he stood,

When I hinted he's no good,

His lifetime, works, and passion fell

Through my opinion into hell.

History places me above

All the people that I love—

No matter how august, in time

The world discovers that they're slime,

Just because of, I might say,

Someone's searing exposé,

My own carte blanche a visa

Better than the Mona Lisa,

No work of genius so implicit 

That in seconds I can't diss it;

All heroes, conquerors: my minions—

None greater than my own opinions:

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who is he,

When I choose to disagree?

The weakling stumbles into verse

While I, a yearling, hone my curse

Though so firmly in a class

That even sun's below it,

Greatness is so much summer grass

When you can nonchalantly mow it.


November 2nd, 1999