At nineteen this book is life-changing:
It appeals to man's burgeoning ego.
But at thirty, with likes re-arranging,
It falls the wayside, like goatees go.
It's not just that it seeps with pretension,
Or rambles at length with longeuer
(Which tests us at paying attention
To philosophy which stinks of manure).
Where's the fun of cheering exec's
Who battle with drab politicians?
And have odd, rape-fantasy sex?
And the writing is like a mortician's!
But I suppose when you're youthful and blithe
There's some fun to be had with this book:
Stuffy, smart women in bed, read her writhe
And dissect now her smoldering look!
But with age, comes a teaspoon of wisdom
Which tells us "it's not all about me."
And makes us think "this book is
I can't now get through 'Book One,' less-so Three!"
But perhaps I'm just missing the point, no?
After all this has gone quite mainstream!
The market crash has made many anoint 't so,
But to me 'tis just Ann Coulter's wet-dream.
So why three stars, you may ask me?
I think "it's all in your perspective!"
At a time I loved it, (damn you've unmask'd me!)
But now I think of nothing but invective.
And so: to each their own,
These ramblings, I disown.