The Ballad Of Jim Klein

Everyone who posts on the internet risks the inevitable curse of the hobgoblins of stupidity who infest the web like maggots on roadkill. Conceit is God's gift to small men, but I find it continually annoying that the first screw that comes loose in their heads is universally the one that holds their tongue (or in the case of commenting on blogs, their typing fingers).

So as my homage to one persistent little pseudo-intellectual simian who would probably bask in the glory of this little collection of verse, while being wholly unable to apprehend its precise fit to him, I sincerely dedicate the following ode to a rectal abscess:

There once was a man named Jim Klein
Who ranted for line after line.
Insanity spewed
In rants long and rude
And buckets of piss, moan, and whine.

Jim Klein's apprehension of words
Was likened to that of most birds
Having brains oversmall
But cacophonous call
They would spread profligate, like their turds.

When undone by the logic of others
Raised not by baboons but by mothers
Jim would scrape out his pants
And fling feces and rants
Demonstrating that chimps were his brothers.

Though remonstrated by one and all
It affected Jim hardly at all.
He'd redouble his yapping
Like one hand's futile clapping
Then just sit in his diaper and bawl.

He abated his efforts a smidge
Like a troll grown homesick for his bridge.
He occasioned slight shock
Crawling back to his rock
As an idiot recalled to his village.

One might think other laddies and lasses
From his absence would cry in great masses.
Alas, rather, not
For if everyone shot
Every horse, there'd be still horses' asses.