Bow-hough’d, hein-shin’d, that incel Burns
on Cheeto’d sheets lays wheezing, prostrate,
red faced virgin, dour and din
consumed in rabbish web debate.
His room awash in resin figures,
forbye a pillow shap’d of a maid,
the tarnish’d pine o’ brittle shelves
with unboxed Funko Pops display’d.
His forays into Ceithir-Chan
have wrought philos’phie, iron cast:
In life, a race 10,000 miles,
fedora-tippers finish last.
Fingers sprattle oily keys
aboon laptop perched on rattling chest
“Facts dinnae care about yer feelings”
Shapiro sentiment, expressed.
The gnash of teeth and harsh rebukes,
were deafening as Burns transcribed,
“That ‘Charlie’s Angels’ film woz shit,
the Metascore was justified.”
That incel Burns comes hostin, hirplin’
the asklent meme-Laird, prolific troll,
His dwelling may be scant and scrim
but spotless ‘twixt his heart and soul.