Savannah

The Mistress of Mediocrity

The roof of my skull grows increasingly sore

As I once again find myself longing for more.

I returned to my home, now a quarter a score

With the knowledge I gained on a prodigal tour.

I looked all about, saw many without,

But much of the hunger I see is for clout.

With ideas that stink as less than devout,

Forgive me for thinking you worthy of doubt.

A malicious mistress dragging all down

Who would perchance venture out of this town.

Lifting instead those of you who remained,

Value to all numbered roughly the same.

While I extrude change from the depths of my brain,

You stand around murmuring,

And mark me insane.