The Last Judgement

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Tim de Vil

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Back home you told your folks
That your pen would make you famous
Destined for greatness
But self-indulgent quips wrapped in 
Onanistic fanfic don't keep the lights on
Or buy golden sconces
So you set your sights on
Taking potshots at hotshots
Or anyone met with success
And they listened
Hell, at least, now, they listen

Do you accuse Michelangelo 
Of selling out?
Do you accuse Michelangelo
Of being a fucking sellout

Armed with a list of bona fides
About as long as my thumb
You made a name dragging names through the mud
And kicking up enough dust
To choke the high horse you rode in on
Ain't that something
I pray your snipe hunt for relevance
Ends in bloodshed
And in your final, feckless breaths, you think
Oh, shit... I should've been an artist
I should've been an artist
Even if they didn't listen

Do you accuse Michelangelo 
Of selling out?
Do you accuse Michelangelo
Of being a fucking sellout

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