Populist Elegance. William E. Scholz

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СКАЧАТЬ eyes don't miss a beat,

      When it could cost him a vote or handshake.

      The hipster politician is the grammar police

      Of a society that doesn't really give a shit

      About grammar correctedness, style, or form.

      But the hipster politician wears his wordplays

      Like a badge of legitimacy and his long, winding

      Statements like a symbol of strength and valor

      In a time without war.

      The Grammar Police are coming for your Twitter timeline.

      They are grading you; you are all in grammar school now,

      For your signal strength.

      As if strength was a rarely used adjective,

      Subjective verb disagreement, an active or

      Passive statement.

      The Grammar Police doesn't judge what matters,

      The resonance of your device,

      The quality of your character,

      Or the rhythms and your rhyme.

      Throw the hipster politicians to the curb,

      Let them drink together in pubs,

      Let the revolutionaries have the salon,

      And while everyone is drinking coffee, tea, or beer,

      Let the real people of this world

      Storm the Bastille

      And take back their Government

      From politicians that do nothing,

      From politicians with empty promises,

      From politicians unable to command attention

      With their empty rhetoric, pristine grammar, and

      Hollow souls.

      From My Penpal On Sacrifice

      Under the knife,

      Feels like a bad habit,

      Like tearing the skin around my fingernails.

      Like the self-disgust of a pornography addiction.

      Like my deepest darkest secret on permanent display,

      At The National Portrait Gallery.

      How can I go down in history,

      Really go down,

      If I don't look the part?

      Beauty in other women

      Flashes before my eyes,

      And I'm disgusted with myself.

      I notice their eye sockets,

      Deep set and provocative,

      Could my cheeks be any higher?

      I notice their midsection,

      Flat and trim,

      I'm flabby like dough,

      My skin is too thick,

      But for a moment,

      If you could offer me yours,

      I'd feel like I own it,

      That toned middle,

      Which arouses my desire.

      I notice long legs,

      And there's no fixing that,

      But high heels,

      Are a much healthier alt.,

      Then carving into my ankles,

      And ripping out my fibula.

      I've had more plastic surgery,

      Than I'm comfortable to admit,

      And after every time,

      I keep running back to you,

      The feminine form, my flower,

      Who gives me that which I cannot buy.

      Does that make me gay?

      The nose,

      There's no fixing the nose,

      And it’s always the first thing that I see,

      Along with everything else,

      But because of cartilage,

      I can get a nose job,

      Over and over again,

      And over,

      Until it falls off.

      When I see a woman with a big nose,

      I'm sympathetic and kind,

      But when I see a woman with a nose,

      Better than my own,

      It’s devastating.

      It hits me like a flash of lightning,

      That leaves the ground desolate,

      And me feeling like I want to hide,

      And that usually happens right before

      Somebody takes my picture.

      My chance at history now lost

      Because I don't look the part.

      They say that over a woman's head is a glass ceiling,

      For me, that glass ceiling is a belief that my appearance,

      Will never match my soul,

      Never be good enough

      For the role that I play.

      This poem, for example,

      Could never be attributed to СКАЧАТЬ