Negative, Ghost Writer

Ah, you of quantifiable verbiage,
You counter of words
Where thirty does a better job than ten,
What have you done to my stuff,
The stuff I don’t really care about,
The words I’m compelled to write
That have no real meaning for me.
Self-reflections of a pointless exorcism
A releasing of soulless shenanigans
Fiction for the ambitious sour cream.

I’ll paraphrase, Red, the black Irishman
Who told a young upstart
To check whatever boxes needed checking,
To make the necessary notes,
To put whatever bullshit official paper needs
To be solid, and then leave him the eff alone.
That’s how I feel after reading your BS,
Your treatise of jargon that I would send back to you
If I had such authority.
I wish I cared enough to challenge you
To a duel of words where we summarized experiences,
Where we noted the precision of bullet points, and
Expressed the reality of classroom behavior,
Mine, yours, and theirs.

At least we got a good laugh
Out of what you wrote
To “cover” my(?) ass.

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