He has eyes the size of windmills with an appetite
exceeding that of No Face from Spirited Away;--
if you mention any woman to him, instantly
he falls in love with her, and envies you for even
breathing her name, white-knighting her from your attention
even though his body count is in the hundreds now,
& he thinks he’s a rock-star because he looks the part
so everybody tells him so even though he can’t
sing or play an instrument, besides just mindless noise;
I wrote a song with him, & although it’s pretty good,
when we started another, he called the whole thing off,
insisting it was too much like every other song;
then, he wrote a song that was simply the first three chords
I had written in our first song. He called this his song.

​They're all failed Waylon Jennings impersonators,
sounding much more like parody songs about him,
yet they make up for the skill they lack in crooning
with cowboy boots, 10-gallon hats, & fringed leather,
& they all say “hoss” & “y'all” twenty times a day
despite all being born north of Mason-Dixon,
since they've all YouTubed clips of The Grand Ole Opry
& The Dukes of Hazzard & Gods and Generals,
& they all play in the same bands on the same bills,
& they all hang out at the same hillbilly bars
that have “Western Wear Nights” & “Honky Tonk Revues,”
& they've all gone on dates with the same bar floozies,
& they all turn a blind eye when it comes to light
that one of them is a dangerous predator.