Koh-Meaty-Anne

I take myself far too seriously.

Don't fake me out,

what do you hear and see?

Am I deliriously

staggering around

a raggedy, bedraggled

house of mirrors,

nothing dearer to me

than copious

reflections of my ego?

Or am I onto something?

Perhaps, like the genus Alopius,

I'm going through metamorphosis

and this

beguiling maze of self-indulgence

is only my chrysalis.

In a few years' time,

if I'm still here by then,

maybe something new

with a little less bark

and a little more bite

will emerge,

but who can say?

The narrative arc

of this operatic funeral dirge

is unpredictable,

and no matter how hyped

my self-care routine gets,

a nuclear surge

will still vaporize me.

Could be that we're

better off that way —

hey,

at least Armageddon

would be less cheesy

than these lines

we're all writing.

What?

Take it easy,

it was only a joke,

it was never intended

to invoke strong emotions

and stoke the fires

of war for real.

I didn't mean it,

I was only hoping you'd laugh,

but don't respond in kind

and poke fun back,

'cause I'm lactose intolerant

and I can't handle

that stuff.