Who the fill in your own favorite phrase is trying to do anything near that,
instead, isn’t this stupid article of yours in some serious need of a little protection,
sure, not quite venturing through these rash arrogant extremes, right,
but whether you’re honestly attempting to be humorous or not,
doesn’t it really say that I don’t have enough of a clue of what I’m pretending to talk about?
Especially when there’s no cited examples once again as usual,
see, you’ve got something strange known as an opinion,
you’re also a major loser which then adds severely to this complexity,
and most importantly, a very big reign,
making certain an enormous amount of people share in your scary expression of pain.
That’s how you dumb mother-pumpers get away with this empty garbage,
cowardly complaining that I’m not citing any examples,
when you’re too stupid to comprehend that I can’t,
exactly because you don’t have even a single illustration to mention,
otherwise, just moan on about things we can only nod to in our imaginations.
More of what you refuse to come to grips with is your obvious isolation from each company,
not having at least the pleasurable opportunity of working in their lowly mail room,
let alone be high up on the board of directors,
of course without a spouse, family, or friend, living off of your self-imposed island,
willfully ignorant of foreign interest from either countering rim inside your chain.
I’m hardly a wrecking ball, I’m simply bringing attention to actual wrecking balls,
a rodeo clown not afraid of the bull’s violent snorts and thrusts,
realizing it’s merely created with papier-mache hanging above from a weak string,
theatrically painted to raise an appearance of both fear and respect,
yet ending with all of us being trusted to freely swinging those valuable bats.
Sharwrong's Song 