I’ve got a second list
Of things that won’t be missed:
“American Idol” contestants and judges,
Against all of whom I carry grudges,
And whose dubious talents I can easily resist.
A capella groups and falsettos,
Barbershop quartets and drum solos
As well as National Anthem balladeers
Leave me close to tears,
The lot of whose efforts I’d foreclose.
And if it were in my power, I’d insist
That the following would be hissed:
Lite-FM, Muzak, and Gangsta rap,
Hip-hop, head-banging, heavy metal crap,
Disco, Do-wop, Kenny G, and the Twist.
Harmonicas and accordions are painful to hear,
On St. Paddy’s Day, it’s the bagpipes I fear,
And at the World Cup, the vuvuzelas nonstop,
On New Year’s Eve, the din before the drop,
(Julianne Moore’s Boston accent—origin unclear.)
Inebriated fans claiming they’re No. 1,
Officious types who legislate fun,
Panderers and Pharisees,
Self-important and -righteous—please!
The thought of them leaves me undone.
Soul patches, muttonchops, and goatees,
Van dykes, comb-overs, and toupees.
That doesn’t quite rhyme, I realize,
But the general idea, you can surmise,
Is that all represent bad hair days.
The comfortably stupid who “have no clue,”
Of further knowledge they’ve no need to accrue.
They know enough, and need learn no more,
Their curiosity closeted behind a closed door,
Their open-mindedness they’ve bid adieu.
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