(I'm late to the party as usual. Y'all have, once again, set the bar high. I tried to do this with British references; couldn't swing it.)
The flesh is dross, ascetics know, ignoble, unrefined.
True self-denial's to forgo the pleasures of the mind.
I shun museums, lecture halls, and haunts of the elites,
And all I'll read are bathroom walls and Sarah Palin's tweets.
I spell things rong, and grammar ain't a thing I wouldn't flunk.
I do not act or sculpt or paint, and only sing when drunk.
In place of opera--taboo--I suffer jiggle shows,
And buy each monthly Playboy to refuse myself the prose.
And then there is the apogee of all delights I miss:
Instead of brilliant poetry, I sit here writing this.
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