Every damn day

This kid comes up to me

And goes “You look great today!”

And I just go

“Nah, not me”

I look like a dog

Who fell off a drifting log

In the middle

Of the Des Plaines River

In 2003

Every damn day

Every damn day

Next time I see that kid,

I might just knock

Him out.

He’s a liar

He’s a cheat

He wears black socks

Smell like smelly feet.

Every damn day

This kid tries to boost my self-esteem

But you know what?

I throw on my earbuds

And listen to Cream

“White Room”

Eric Clapton

Understands my gloom

Like no one else


The next damn day

I get a text message

From that kid

“Hey will you vote for me

For my class president bid?”

And I just leave him

On read

I hope this

Instills some sense

Of existential dread

In that kid.

Every damn day

When I’m reading my Nietzche

This freakin’ kid

Interrupts my Nietzche

To tell me things he just read online

About Nietzche

Like, holy fuck dude

Just let me read Nietzche


Every damn day

I see this kid

He keeps his black dress shirt tucked

I’d wager a guess

That he just doesn’t give a fuck

But he seems sad

So I waltz up to him

And I say

“You look great today!”

And he bats me away

Like a fruit fly

With a rolled up edition

Of the Wall Street Journal

Every damn day

Every damn day

This kid wallows in his filth

No friends

No enemies

No one of his ilk

He sits alone at lunch

And listens to the first three minutes

Of “Roundabout” by Yes

On repeat

As he munch

As he crunch

Every damn day

I pass him in the hallway

He throws his headphones on

And blasts away with his Clapton

I try to brighten his day

But he just wanders the hallway

Always sulks in the hallway

Like he’s got no better place to be

But the hallway

This one damn day

I text all my friends to vote for me for prez

And I decide

“Ah, what the Pez”

And I shoot the gloomy kid a text

I wait and I wait

I paced and I fed

And in the end

I just got put

On fucking read.

Every damn day

I see him reading Nietzche

What kind of pretentious fuck reads Nietzche

In the year of our lord


Knowing a thing or two about


I saunter on over

And try to open his third eye

I tell him about the Ubermensch

But his breath reeks of Cheeto stench

And I look at him and realize

This shmuck should just curl up

And die.