You should never burn your work:

Or should you?

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I should destroy one short humorous poem in particular.  If anything I’ve written ever becomes of any concern to anyone, eventually someone will get around to digging up that damned thing.  They might then debate for a century as to whether or not I had been some kind of anti-Semite.

What strikes me funny there is that it’s usually the people making those kind of assumptive accusations that actually possess the proclivities of which they are accusing others.

So to those arguing for the positive:  Do look in the mirror; and there you will find an anti-Semite accusation ready–a veritable tailor-made, steaming pile of narcissistic,  self-important,  misanthropy, masquerading as tolerance. Problem solved.

All kidding aside though, the verses in question were meant to mock someone in my own small circle of friends and acquaintances.  What is so funny about the piece is that all the nastiest lines are direct quotes taken from his own lips regarding himself, his family, and his situation in life.  So…  I didn’t have much part in their creation; nor did I  do anything creative at all except perhaps for assembling his words into some kind of order  and thinking up a few ways to rhyme them.

Having expressed all that, I still may decided to burn the damned thing anyway; as the friend in question has long since passed away; and, there are a scant few around that would still remember the inside jokes and what they were about; not to mention that the piece itself is nothing worth preserving.  Just a bit of formalized trash-talking between friends.  Believe me, he gave as good as he got.  I hope he never wrote anything down though; or else people might end up accusing him of being an anti-whateverinhellian.

2 responses to “You should never burn your work:

  1. UPDATE: Indeed I decided to trash it. I apologise now for doing so. It is an act which I feel to be quite craven. Still….. I have had my say above. And, to be sure, the above words are more important, perhaps, than the ones I destroyed.

    Unfortunately for me, I long hence committed the abominable thing to memory and so will be haunted until the very end with those ill conceived verses.


  2. Fortunately, I, who cherish all of your words silly or otherwise; know that you talk in your sleep. Now, if I can only remember the name of the friend the poem was written for so I can start the whispered conversation in your ear some night.

    Bwahahaaaaaaaa…….They don’t call me Plaguie for nothin’, my dear.



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