I truly don't know what came first,
the written word, for which I thirst;
or the neurosis in my brain,
that send me spiraling down the drain.
All I know, is that, as of now,
as ranting raving, ego-driven cow,
I must be an awful suck and bore,
and friends should show me to the door.
All I talk of, which isn't much
Is talk of me, and my and such
and really isn't all that pleasant,
sound akin to warbling, dying pheasant
I need to be reassured, steadfastly,
that all I do is great, not nasty
and all I write is brilliant prose
On and on and endlessly it goes...