Social Media: A Poem

Joan Rivers is finally dead,

Perfectly preserved in her silk-lined bed.

The “beat-up Ferguson cop”

Is just some white dude, stop

Finding things to be offended by.

It’s all going to piss you off;

PC-ness has made us all soft.

Buzzfeed quizzes spill through:

What does your shit shape say about you?

Robin Williams died, too.

Won’t touch that one, will you?

Photo leaks and breast tweaks,

I’ve seen nothing worth anything in weeks.

Chelsea Cain flipped her shit.

All us writers ran away with it.

How dare she say what’s on her mind,

Leave it there for all of us to find,

And steamroll with accusations of anger

Without so much as a thought to what pains her?

I agree with you, she’s fucking crazy.

But is it her fault her fingers aren’t too lazy

To answer the siren call of the net

Rather than vent to a friend or a pet?

Narcissism fuels a stream of posts:

Selfies and gym check-ins and instagram photos,

If it were possible to bomb the hub—

Just kidding, Feds, don’t lock me up.

Some dude drank a bottle of jack;

Surprised himself when he had to yak.

This is what passes for news today

(Looking at you, Gawker, I fucking hate you).

I know that didn’t rhyme.

Thanks for that captain obvious.

The rest probably won’t either,

Because you’ve pissed me offvious.

Point is, we puke into the void

Hoping you, though, annoyed

Will latch onto our echoes

And buy our fucking books because that’s WHY WE’RE HERE, DAMMIT, TO WRITE BOOKS YOU READ AND…

*breathes*

Social media sucks. Buy my book.

*drops mic*

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