I look like an asshole.
I feel like an asshole.
I probably am an asshole.
You know what they say about walking
and talking like a duck?
I once tried to pull off a pompadour
an asshole’s haircut
which, in an earlier generation,
was called a duck’s ass.
Apparently, I’ve been an asshole from way back.

And in most of my ways
it’s intentional.
It’s protective posturing:
blast ’em before they do you.
Best defense is good offensive assholery, y’dig?
I do dirt first before I gets hurt.
It’s willful, is what I’m saying.

But I never meant to hurt you.
Believe me, please:
it’s the very last thing I meant to do.
I feel so helpless, with blood on my shoe.
Is there any way I can make you smile anew?

Well, clearly crappy rhymes are out.
But obviously, understand:
I don’t want to do this to you.
I’ll turn over a new leaf.
I’ll become a better person
or a more careful one
or at least a less thoughtless one.
The actions I’ve involved myself with
are those of a dead man
who doesn’t belong among the civilized.

He will be purged, I promise.
I will flush him out
to ever be sent to the depths.

When next you look, I hope,
the asshole will be gone
and, I guess,
you’ll have to tell me
exactly what I feel like then.