Mr. and Mrs. Cleverest Motherfucker on Earth

On slow days,
in a lonely haze,
sometimes I’ll think back
to my college writing class,
the girl in the purple-framed glasses.
It wasn’t just her perfect ass,
I fell fast for
her sarcastic sass,
and eloquent mastery
of words and wit,
a lit genius
with gorgeous lips.

And my mind exploded
with thoughts of her and me
atop a pile of
dropouts and druggies,
slow-dancing on the desks
of the cheering and clapping
cavemen with envious faces
looking on from below.

One night,
we had to write
a persona poem,
occupy the mind
of famous figure,
and determined
to impress her
I devoured her work,
about a man dying
alone in an
apartment in Basel.
The clues were all there,
and I didn’t dare look
dumb in front of this
gorgeous girl,
so I googled the clues,
and let Wikipedia
come to the rescue.

The next day she read
her silky stanzas,
and when the teacher asked
if anyone knew who
the words depicted
as predicted,
the esoteric reference,
sailed over the mortals’ heads,
so I piped up and said,
cool as Canadian winter,
“It’s about that Nietzsche guy, right?”

Her smile said it all,
she ate it up,
and the preacher
pronounced us,
Mr. and Mrs.
Cleverest Motherfucker on Earth.

After class,
I caught up to her
crossing the courtyard,
and she told me about
the lovely weekend she had
with her boyfriend.

Before she left me to drown,
I called after her,
“It was nice meeting you,
Mrs. Some Other Guy,
I’m Mr. Dumbest Motherfucker on Earth.”

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