An Epistle to a Pathological Creep ​of Montreal

He'd explain to you but it would take too long
Why he is right and everybody else is wrong
He'd endeavor friend to make your mind correct
He'd try but he thinks it would take too long too long
It's probably simple math
That keeps him on his elevated path

While talking to him it is very rare
To sense that he's acknowledging you're even there
Or else he'll speak as if you should be taking notes
But fears that you might steal one of his brilliant quotes
There's no idea that you could add
That he wouldn't claim to have already had

He used to be a really decent guy
Before his insecurities enslaved him
Now his ego seems to be raging uncontrollably
Destroying every friendship that he's ever had
I don't even like to think about him, it's so very sad

Only a boy of three would dare act so egregiously

Now the kind of places he's most often found
Are rife with pedants running topics into the ground
And the company that he is known to keep
Are all self important bores that put you right to sleep
Yes I'd rather be hung
Than hear them discussing Carl Jung