TASTE OF YOUR OWN MEDICINE

The boy with his ledger, of rights and wrongs,

Sings hollow tunes, but never his own songs.
When his flaws are laid bare, he turns to “move on,”
Yet he thrives on the judgment he casts upon.

A lover of idioms, metaphors in vain,

Believes his wordplay makes him reign.
With a glance, he judges, with words, he stabs,
Deems himself a king of life's drabs and jabs.

But let’s be honest, your digs fell flat,

Not a single diss hit the mat.
You call yourself cosmic—master of the dance,
Yet stumble through life with a hollow stance.

You sneer at the world, “They can’t best me!”

If that were true, oh, how grim life would be.
And you, unaware of my silent strife,
I longed to erase the touch of your life.

You, the one who knew about Stifler’s Mom,

But couldn't handle my fire—you’d rather play calm.
“Would you wear this in front of my mom?” you’d plea,
While handing out lectures on love and purity.

Preach on, boy, of peace and white doves,

While you wear your hypocrisy like a glove.
Taste your own medicine, bitter and true,
For the world won’t bow—it’s not about you.

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Cruising Alone

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