Everybody Hates Elves Come into the mystic valley, All ye weary travellers; Come and rest beside the pool And lay aside your grief. Astriel will play the harp And sooth you with her singing And beauty quite beyond Belief. We shall dine by moonlight On delectable confections While conversing softly In our ancient tongue, and so All will be quite courteous And wonderful and magic, And yes, in case you're wondering, We know Everybody hates elves. Everybody can see That we're better than you. This is knowledge that we Hold over your heads. You are all you can be, But you'll never be anything like us. Everybody hates elves. Everybody's aware That we elven-folk don't Really know that you're there, Or if you point it out, Then we truly don't care. Everybody hates elves. We are lovely and accomplished Symbols of perfection; We are slender, willowy, And absurdly tall. Humans long to sleep with us And spawn pretty half-elves With no human features At all. Humans have such tiny lives; We live almost forever. I have spent a hundred years Just gazing at the sky. And since we are all wealthy, We live our lives in comfort. It must be awfully dreary To die. Everybody hates elves. Everybody can see That we're better than you. This is knowledge that we Hold over your heads. You are all you can be, But you'll never be anything like us. Everybody hates elves. Everybody's aware That we elven-folk don't Really know that you're there, Or if you point it out, Then we truly don't care. Everybody hates elves. [Long, silly kazoo solo] You are nourished and quite rested, And the beauty of our land Has allayed your grief, which vanished 'Neath ethereal song. Now that you are clean and happy, Lapped about with comforts, It's time for you to move Along. We shall give you gifts, of course, And prophecies, and blessings; We'll shed diamond tears as we all See you on your way. But you can't just stay here; this Is not a place for humans. We shall wait politely as you say: Everybody hates elves. Everybody can see That we're better than you. This is knowledge that we Hold over your heads. You are all you can be, But you'll never be anything like us. Everybody hates elves. Everybody's aware That we elven-folk don't Really know that you're there, Or if you point it out, Then we truly don't care. Everybody hates elves. Everybody hates elves. Everybody can see That we're better than you. This is knowledge that we Hold over your heads. You are all you can be, But you'll never be anything like us. Everybody hates elves. Everybody's aware That we elven-folk don't Really know that you're there, Or if you point it out, Then we truly don't care. Everybody hates elves. Everybody hates elves. Everybody hates elves.

Fake Geek Guy Since I was eight years old, I’ve wanted to be Batgirl. I make grappling hooks and batarangs, And the other girls and I all strive To foil the Joker’s plot to kill The whole Bat-family, as told In Gail Simone’s dark chronicle Of Batgirl’s valiant struggle to survive. I notice that your Batman Costume’s mixing eras. And your colour scheme is off, and you’re Too pudgy, and you’re not so tall. I doubt you even know that Batman’s Gloves were purple in their first Appearance in the thirties. You Should not be dressed as Batman at all. Hey, dude, What’s going on? Why are you even At this con? You can’t be one Of us; get gone. Your costume is a lie. Hey, look, I’ve confessed: This conversation was a test. You failed like All the rest. Go home; You’re just a fake geek guy. I miss the old days when I could come to conventions And could talk about the things I loved With other people just like me. Oh, sure, there would be one or two Of you; you didn’t bother us Because you knew your place and stayed Off on the margins. That’s how it should be. But now it’s cool to be a geek, And suddenly you’ve noticed, And you hang around because you think That makes you cool and geeky too. You say you love the fandoms, but We know you are just posturing. These properties are ours; you won’t Admit that they were never meant for you. Hey, dude, What’s going on? Why are you even At this con? You can’t be one Of us; get gone. Your costume is a lie. Hey, look, I’ve confessed: This conversation was a test. You failed like All the rest. Go home; You’re just a fake geek guy. Your costume is too sexy. Why is it so sexy? You should hide Your muscles and your package ‘cause We know that you’re just taunting us. Do you really think you’re sexy? You’ve got rolls of fat on your backside. Cover up and move on through. We don’t want to look at you. I know you think you’ve Broken through into our clubhouse, But you’ll never really understand What makes a proper geek a geek. “Geek guy” is just a secondary Category, and we don’t Appreciate your strange belief That you should have an equal right to speak. Go make me a sandwich; let The other girls and me catch up. Your package is distracting, though It’s kind of nice to know it’s there. We don’t want your opinions; you Should probably just watch some sports. Sure, tweet about it; that’s so cute, But to be honest, no one here will care. Hey, dude, What’s going on? Why are you even At this con? You can’t be one Of us; get gone. Your costume is a lie. Hey, look, I’ve confessed: This conversation was a test. You failed like All the rest. Go home; You’re just a fake geek guy. Hey, dude, What’s going on? Why are you even At this con? You can’t be one Of us; get gone. Your costume is a lie. Hey, look, I’ve confessed: This conversation was a test. You failed like All the rest. Go home; You’re just a fake geek guy. You’re just a fake geek guy. You’re just a fake geek guy.

Come Rescue Me The moons rise Over the sand. There's no surprise Anywhere in this land. We run the farm. The Jawas come. Sandpeople are Just kind of dumb. Stuck in a rut, I know that I Will never leave. I search near and far For somewhere that's green. Not that you are Gonna find that on Tatooine. The stars hang in The sky and taunt Me. I cannot have What I want. Stuck in this life, I wish that I Could just believe That someone would rescue me. That I'd have a destiny. That I could simply slide Into being what I was meant to be. And I would save the day In a galaxy far, far away. There would be nothing to choose, And I would be free: Come rescue me. I know I Am meant to be great. Perhaps I should fly Off myself...no, I'll just wait. I need adventure. Even so, I've no idea Where to go. I guess I could ask Uncle Owen And Aunt Beru. I have got A lot of dreams, But they`re not Worth going to extremes. I`m discontent; I`m wanting more, But someone needs To get the door For me, `cause I can`t Work out what I`m supposed to do. Please, someone, come rescue me. Tell me my destiny. Help me to simply slide Into being what I am meant to be. And I will save the day In a galaxy far, far away. There will be nothing to choose, And I shall be free: Come rescue me. And if only I could find a hermit somewhere Who would hand me some old weapon And a story from my past. And if only I could find some droid companions And some rogue who owned a spaceship, And a ship that could go really fast. If only I could run into a princess And could rescue her by accident But get the credit anyway. If only I could win some sort of medal. I could do it if my family Weren`t in the way. The moons set Under the hill. I`m chafing, yet I`m standing here still. It isn`t right; It isn`t fair. The universe Just doesn`t care, For if it did, I know that it Would send a sign. I guess I`ll just have to stay. It`s more or less Expected, anyway. But if fate wants me, Have no fear: I`ll be waiting For it right here. I wish on the stars; I wish that they Would fall in line. Please, someone, come rescue me. Tell me my destiny. Help me to simply slide Into being what I am meant to be. And I will save the day In a galaxy far, far away. There will be nothing to choose, And I shall be free: Come rescue me. There will be nothing to choose. There will be nothing to lose. And somehow, in the end, I shall be free: Come rescue me.

Trekless Why is it not okay that I don't know anything about Star Trek? Why is it so absurd that I don't follow the rules of this game? I hear you discussing the Borg. I'd rather be trapped in the morgue Than contribute to that conversation. Why are you so surprised that I don't know anything about Star Trek While it's okay that you think that Darth Vader is lame? I find it colossally hard To feign interest in Jean-Luc Picard, And I wish we could pick a new station. I know you, Captain Kirk. I can't avoid you. Spock is a Vulcan who has pointy ears. "Beam me up, Scotty," I cried, and annoyed you, 'Cause Kirk never said that, and then there were tears, And you hugged your stuffed tribble, and I still don't know What a tribble is. What a tribble is. Why are you angry that I've never watched a full season of Star Trek? God knows I've tried, but I can't, and no, it's not because I'm a girl. I watched BSG before you Stargate, Firefly, and Doctor Who, So I don't understand what you're saying. Why must I be ashamed that I would rather read books than watch Star Trek? I'm not sure what a Ferengi is, so I'm a churl. You claim that I'm not a real geek, But I think your logic is weak, And I'm not as bad as you're portraying. Being a redshirt is bad for some reason. Klingons are bumpy, though why, I don't know. Thinking that Star Wars is better is treason. It is a good thing to say "Make it so." Jean-Luc Picard is the best unless Kirk is. All of the spinoffs are both bad and good. Watching the movies and going berserk is Okay if they're odd-numbered; that's understood. Star Trek conventions are fun for the fanboys. Wesley's annoying, but Wheaton is great. The fans will attack you if you call them man-boys, And Spock's resurrection is all right to hate. There are four lights, and Picard plays a whistle, And Kirk kissed Uhura, which was a big deal. Bakula's series may merit dismissal, Or not; all I know is it must make you feel. Crusher and Riker and Data and Sulu. You'll happily watch any series that's on. And now even better: they're all up on Hulu. If you cannot access them, you just scream, "Khaaaaan!" None of these elements actually makes Any sense to me. Any sense to me. Why are you leaving me due to my not knowing stuff about Star Trek? I didn't dump you when you told me outright that Tolkien was crap. I sicken you, but you will pay For five seconds with George Takei After six hours of waiting. I am a bit relieved that I don't have to fake interest in Star Trek For some Klingon speaker who can't find Berlin on a map. I think that I'll go on a binge And watch all five seasons of Fringe, Which I expect is less grating. Why is it not okay that I don't know anything about Star Trek?

Being Watson Mrs. Hudson showed another client Into Flat B; You knew what he wanted right away. That didn’t stop you From approaching me To see if I had anything to say. I got it wrong, of course. I always do. I’m not sure why I even try. I’m not stupid, But I’m not you. We’re very different, you and I. I can’t help admiring Your enormous brain, Which analyses everything with ease, Without effort, Without pain, And everybody just says, “Mr. Holmes, please.” Most of the time, I am content To simply lurk behind. But every now and then, I resent That you never dream I’d mind Being Watson. Shunted slightly to the side. Being backup: Always bridesmaid, never bride. I have wondered In odd moments of ennui How you would handle being me: Being Watson. Later, you became more brilliant And more precise Solving scores of puzzling cases that Left me breathless, Without advice, Growing stupid and, for some reason, fat. The contrast made you Shine more bright, While I pranced like a buffoon. More than ever, You did everything right; I was a cartoon. Being Watson. You were sky, and I was soil. Being always Seen as nothing but a foil. You got brighter; I got obviously dim. Were you happy you weren’t him? You weren’t Watson. And I sometimes think it's all right. And I sometimes just lean back and let you shine. But I sometimes wish the glory Of the story I was telling could be mine. It's mostly fine. Now we've ventured Out into space In pursuit of crime. We've changed gender; We've changed race; We've travelled through time. We've met Cthulhu. We've turned bad. We've been lovers, though discreet. We've cured cancer. We've gone mad From the shadows over Baker Street. I'm brighter now, But still I find That no matter how far We go, I'm that same Step behind. We've changed, but we're still what we are. I'd break away, But I'm constrained By my own perfect loyalty. It's a bit Like being chained. I just hope someday you'll see Being Watson Would be really hard for you. Being silent Is what not everyone can do. You solve cases; Though I suppose that is a start, I'm the one who turns them into art. Being Watson Isn't always fun, but hey: Being different Must be worse. And anyway, You've existed So ridiculously long, And still you could never write this song. That's why I'm Watson.

Follow My Brain So English class is getting boring. It’s full of stupid stuff that I don’t know. And half the other kids are snoring As we’re exploring Some poem by Edgar Allan Poe. I wish that we could read The Hunger Games. I think I need an ugly hat. I don’t know why I can’t Remember people’s names. And I’m not sure Why the raven quoth that. They say I’m hyperactive; They treat me as a pain. They don’t get that all I do Is follow my brain. So Mrs. Black is has one green earring, And it is shaped like lots of little trees. I spend a lot of class time fearing Her way of sneering Because she always gives me Ds. I wonder if there is a poet tree, A tree with poets as its fruit. It’s getting really hot, And I have got to pee. I think I’ve got Something gross on my boot. They say I’m kind of spazzy; It fills them with disdain. They can’t see that all I do Is follow my brain. And there is something rapping, There’s something gently tapping, But none of it is trapping My attention, and I Am looking for a haven From the grim and ghastly craven Poem about the raven. I would like a piece of pie. A grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous piece of pie. She said she’d finished; what a lie. Day- Light makes a burning patch on half my neck. At least I know that it is Friday. Tomorrow’s my day! There will be no more of this dreck. My teacher’s probably a demon queen. My pencil isn’t very good. I want to write a song About a submarine, And I would do it Now if I could. They say I’m bad at learning Again and then again. They don’t understand I just Follow my brain. It is a stark and wormy morning. I would have given lots of chocolate for Some kind of poem-related warning. Now I’m adorning All of my books with “nevermore.” My teacher’s giving me a grumpy look. She doesn’t like it when I squirm. I want to think about Stuff that’s not in this book, But Mrs. Black Is incredibly firm. I’ll fake attentiveness, though It really is a strain. But on the inside I will still Follow my brain. Follow my brain. Follow my— Squirrel!

The 'Geisters Don’t misunderstand What I am wanting here. People call us a cult, Say we yearn for control, Exercise that control through fear. But everything that I’ve done, Everything that I want to do Is explained by the pure, Purifying emotions I always have felt for you. You say you had no choice? Well, you should rejoice. You have power beyond What I have ever seen. I worship that power Through your total subjection; There is no in between. If I left you alone, How could anyone call that praise? I enslave you because I respect you so much. I’m respecting you with my gaze. Despite what’s happening here, My motives are clear: I did it for love. I did it for you. It’s strange that you claim You didn’t want me to. In the end, this will be Win-win...well, mostly for me. But come on: you gotta agree, I did it for love. Okay, I’ll admit I aim to dominate You, for if you are mine, If your greatness is bent To my will, then I must be great. You should be very proud, For clearly, you have been sent To provide me the means To start on the path, The path to enlightenment. I am quite under your spell. You say it hurts you? Oh well. I did it for love. I did it for you. It’s strange that you claim You didn’t want me to. In the end, this will be Win-win...well, mostly for me. But come on: you gotta agree, I did it for love. [Bridge] You have made it clear That you are quite upset. You have bided your time, Taken bloody revenge, But I’m not discouraged yet. For the more you rebel, The more satisfied I will be When I finally break you. Believe me, I will. You are meant to belong to me. You had better give in. It’s clear you can’t win. Sure, evidence suggests That you have won this round. I’m surrounded by corpses, Lying twisted in pain In a wretched heap on the ground. It is sweet that you think That you have the power here. See, since you are mine, Your power’s mine too. I’m revelling in your fear. You should really have guessed You’re built to be possessed. I did it for love. I did it for you. It’s strange that you claim You didn’t want me to. In the end, this will be Win-win...well, mostly for me. But come on: you gotta agree, I did it for love. I did it for love. I did it for you. It’s strange that you claim You didn’t want me to. In the end, this will be Win-win...well, mostly for me. But come on: you gotta agree, I did it for love. I did it for love. I did it for love.

They Are in Love Thurghald and Magilor Go questing in the badlands, With Shahna as their brave companion, Clad in threads of gold. The three fight dragons and recover Bushels of lost treasure And lore recorded by the ancients In the days of old. They suffer and they overcome. They weep, they fight, they conquer. And Thurghald's mind is broken When he finds he cannot bend. But everything they go through Is a footnote to the real point: There is really only one plot thread That matters in the end. They are in love. Boy wants girl, girl wants other boy. The math is wrong, And that makes everything seem right. Push comes to shove, And any story, any song Should treat true love as more important Than a planet-changing fight. They are in love. Captain Smithson and his crew Explore a distant planet They crash on when their cargo ship Develops sentience And tries to kill them all; this starts A struggle for dominion Between the humans and machines, Which quickly grows intense. The conflict spans a century And several generations. The younger fighters do not know What they are fighting for. A few escape the battle and Hole up on someone's farmstead, And then we get the bit that's more Important than the war. They are in love. That is what gives the tale its punch. If there were no Love plot, why would we even care? The moral of The story always has to go Somewhere with true love at the centre. There is nothing can compare. They are in love. Bridget is a foundling who Goes wandering through the forest; She comes across a mansion lurking Lost and overgrown. She bravely breaks in to explore And finds it full of monsters, Awaking her ancestral need To fight them on her own. She'll stand upon the mountaintop, Death pulsing through her fingers, Her destiny a shining light That will--that must--prevail. But first she's got to make it through That mansion full of monsters, And most of them are kind of cute, And all of them are male. They are in love, Which is the way it always goes. The story's charms Are not complete without a kiss. If we must shove Our heroine into the arms Of monsters, that's the way it's going to Be; she'd better find her bliss. They are in love. They are in love. Let's take five pages to describe The way they gaze Into each other's soulful eyes. We'll rise above That pesky plot, and we'll amaze You all with just how much in love they are. You'll feel such glad surprise You'll be in love. There's so much love. They are in love.

The Prophecy Hotline Thank you for calling the prophecy hotline. If you are a prophet yourself, then press one. Press two if you need to connect with a prophet And three if your prophecy's done. Press four if you're planning to sidestep your prophecy, Or five to bluntly rebel against fate. Press six for denial and seven for apathy. For righteous fury, press—[beeeep] You have chosen to sidestep your prophecy. Press one to leave your small child out to die. Press two for advice about slaughtering newborns To send the succession awry. To desperately search for the tiniest loophole In words uttered by three weird sisters, press three, Or four if they're seeming to offer a kingship. That never pans out, believe—[beeeep] You have chosen small infant exposure. Press one for the desert and two for the plain. Press three for a mountainside haunted by shepherds Just slightly outside your do—[beeeep] You have chosen to opt for the shepherds. Press one to strip your baby naked. Press two To leave him some token that marks him as special And clearly connects him to—[beeeep] You have chosen to leave him a token. Press one for rejoicing, and press two for tears. Then, no matter which option you have selected, Just wait on the line sixteen years. Here is some Muzak—[beeeep] You have chosen rejoicing and waiting. And now that you've waited, press one if a boy Has come to your kingdom surrounded by portents And looking for things to dest—[beeeep] You have chosen the hero's appearance. Press one if you've figured out he is your son. Press two if you're clueless or just don't believe me And three if you are on the run. If you're still insisting that you did the right thing When you threw the universe into uproar By mucking with fate and assuming that you could Just kiss off the prophet, press—[beeeep] You have chosen to follow tradition And act as if prophecies can't be fulfilled By well-meaning morons who want to prevent them. You're likely about to be killed. I am afraid you have run out of options. I hope that our system has helped in some small. Way. Stay on the line to connect with a prophet, Though that will do no good at—[dial tone]

When the Starcats Come Sylvia and Brittany Just posted rumours about me Online. Their friends are laughing even Louder than before. I guess they feel they have to tell Me that I'm ugly and I smell, And then I guess they have to go and Laugh at me some more. I've got no contacts on my phone. I sit in math class all alone And listen to the giggles and the Whispers all around. And I can always feel them stare, And I don't think it's really fair The way they mock me even if I Never make a sound. But I don't let my feelings show Since I know something they don't know. Things are going to change here, so I'm Waiting patiently. Right now, I may want to bawl. I may not matter much at all, But someday soon, the clouds will open, And the world will see: It will all come right When the starcats come. It will all be better When they sweep down from the sky And be my friends and make it clear That I'm the reason that they're here. That's right: run away in fear. It will all come right When the starcats come. The starcats live in outer space, But soon they'll have to leave the place They're in and come to Earth, where they will Spread despair and pain. They have quiet, glowing paws And lethal poison in their claws, And when they purr, the frequency Destroys the human brain. I will be immune, of course. I'll ride a starcat like a horse, But not quite like a horse, since she will Speak good English too. The starcats will respect me, and Be glad to bow to my command, And everywhere we go, we'll show our Prominence to you. It will all come right When the starcats come. It will all be better When they sweep down from the sky And be my friends and make it clear That I'm the reason that they're here. That's right: run away in fear. It will all come right When the starcats come. And Brittany will come to me And beg me for a starcat of Her very own so she can fly Around and be almost as cool As I am, but I'll smile at her And order all the starcats to Attack her with their fire breath, And then I'll eat some ice cream. The starcats will soon settle in, And then the hard part will begin: The part where we restructure every Social hierarchy. It will be merciless and fast, And all the kids who were picked last At sports will be prime ministers, though Still subject to me. And everywhere the starcats go, They'll hunt my classmates, since, you know, Starcats prefer to prey on people Who are in my class. And it will all be more ideal With every hearty starcat meal, And all the jocks and beauty queens Will tremble as we pass. Right now, I'm in the garbage can Because they put me there and ran Away after they superglued My trousers to the rim. But I'm not worried. I won't fight. When starcats flash across the night, They'll toss those jerks into the sea to See if they can swim. It will all come right When the starcats come. It will all be better When they sweep down from the sky And be my friends and make it clear That I'm the reason that they're here. That's right: run away in fear. It will all come right When the starcats come. It will all come right When the starcats come. It will all be better When they sweep down from the sky And be my friends and make it clear That I'm the reason that they're here. That's right: run away in fear. It will all come right when the starcats There will be a blight when the starcats It will all come right when the starcats come.

Take My Sheep It’s five o’clock a.m, and The night is nearly done. We’ve agreed that we shall play Until someone has won. As that’s the case, take pity; This is torture without sleep. Goddamn this game; Please, someone take my sheep. I thought that I was clever when I went and settled on The sheep-infested hexes of The island of Catan, But I don’t have a sheep port, And I can’t sell these things cheap. I’m begging you: Please, someone take my sheep. I have so many sheep cards in my hand, So much sheep-dominated land, And we keep rolling sixes, and That’s sheep for me. I’d give an arm and leg for bricks or wood, And ore and wheat would both be good, But you’ve decided that that should Just never be. I’m buried in a mound of sheep. Why won’t you set me free? I know that I could trade them, Get one resource for four, But it is kind of stupid to Pay twelve sheep for three ore. You all trade with each other, But not me. I could weep. I’m on my knees: Please, someone take my sheep. My strategy has been smashed into shards; The robber’s stolen half my cards. I can’t afford to hire guards. It makes no sense. You’ve all decided I am going to lose; I have no options left to choose. I see you tightening the screws. You think I’m dense, But I know what you’re doing; my God, this is so intense. It’s six o’clock a.m. now. This game is really slow. It’s all a vast conspiracy, Though why, I do not know. I cannot build a city; The price is far too steep. I am in tears; Please, someone take my sheep. This has become a nightmare. It’s dragging on and on. Perhaps it is revenge for how I gloat through Carcasonne. Will you forgive me if I Just admit I’ve been a creep? I need your help; Please, someone take my sheep. I guess this goes to show you That what you sow you reap. Goddamn this game; Please, someone take my sheep.

Damn Those Dwarves I’ve tried to be understanding, To hold the group together on my own, But this job’s too demanding. We’re fourteen, but I feel all alone. I didn’t sign up to Nursemaid a bunch of helpless guys. Well, sure, I’m kind of new At this, but ‘twas a bad surprise To learn that my employers Aimed to be their own destroyers. They didn’t even bring their winter scarves: Damn those dwarves. I was green in the beginning; I cringe when I think about those trolls. But lately, I’ve been winning Lots, plus I’m achieving all my goals, I’m much less often bait. The dwarves have learned I have some use, Which would, I guess, be great If unaccompanied by abuse. I am the main provider And can stab a giant spider, But take the blame when everybody starves. Damn those dwarves. And all I hear is, “Bilbo, Why don’t you steal something? Why are you So lazy? It’s your job To rob the dragon; go and follow through.” And meanwhile, you are thirteen Dwarves armed to the teeth and full of pride. You’ve come back to your mountain But are terrified to go inside. You depend on me for everything Just because I’ve got a magic ring. There they go again, complaining That I’m way too weak and way too small. I am barely refraining From just ditching these guys, one and all. I don’t know who they think Has managed to get them this far. I really need a drink, But this cave doesn’t have a bar. I wonder if they ever wonder Who ‘twas rectified their blunder As they all lay moaning on the wharves: Damn those dwarves. I’m pretty good at riddles, But one riddle I can’t solve is how I’ll get through this adventure With this dead weight choking me. And now We’re at an impasse here And everyone has looked once more to me, And I just want a beer, And if you’re rational, you will agree: This is more a nightmare than a dream. Dwarves are not as useful as they seem. Gandalf got me into this, but He’s gone AWOL for some reason, so I’m in charge now. Oh, bliss. But I envy his power just to go. I’ve got the Arkenstone, Which makes me feel obscurely bad, And how we`ll get away`s unknown, And I think Thorin’s going mad, And everyone’s against us, With extremely solid reason, And we may be here forever, And I’ve just committed treason, And I’m stuck inside a mountain With no food or hope or plan, just creeping Blindly ‘round the halls the dragon carves: Damn those dwarves.

I Can't Decide As the night wears on And I toss and turn alone in bed, Scenes racing through my head Without resolution, I dread the dawn. Things will get urgent when I have to see them both again. I doubt there's a solution. They said I had to choose. I said I would. I lied. Right now, both boys are mine; I can't decide. One is tall and dark, And the other one is tall and fair, Sun glinting in his hair, And pretty good at singing. One is great at snark And always looks a little hurt Plus excellent without a shirt. My preference keeps swinging From Boy A to Boy B. I wish that I could hide. This is too hard for me; I can't decide. And Boy A is immortal, Or he says that he's immortal, anyway. Boy B is a little dangerous, But so is Boy A, and Boy A Takes me flying through the universe. I feel so free. Both of them make me not need A personality. And I think of them As I brush my teeth and go to school. They're both so pretty and so cool, And both of them have powers. And by ten p.m. I'm surprised to see the day is done. It feels as if it's just begun. I've dreamed of them for hours. There's nothing in my life That they cannot provide. Which one will make me his wife? I can't decide. And I am nearly sixteen, Or I say I'm nearly sixteen, anyway. I am old enough to love, So I love both Boy B and Boy A. Maybe I'll just kill myself a bit, Prove my love is pure. Does it make a difference that I'm feeling so unsure? This is life or death. I have got to make them want me more. Otherwise, what am I for? We're meant to be together. I should take a breath And choose a soul mate randomly So that you can live through me. Why are you asking whether That's really the best way? I feel it deep inside. I'll wait just one more day; I can't decide.

CanLit Our literary magazine is looking for submissions. We hope you will consider sending us a story, though Before you do, please notice that we have a few conditions It is important that you know. I've heard that you are fond of spaceships and of conversations Between old ghosts and children set on futuristic Mars. These do not fit our guidelines, which have served as the foundations For how we choose our writing stars. We want your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Meaningful and gritty. Give us CanLit. (CANLIT!) Because ennui is witty. Postmodern or historical, with lots of metaphorical And patly categorical bad weather that will fit Into your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Fulfilling expectations, that is CanLit. (CANLIT!) With a smidgeon of First Nations. We don't want your unrealistic shit. Just fill us up with good CanLit. (CANLIT!) We're running out of stories of Alberta and of farming Set around the Great Depression; those are never stale. A bored housewife protagonist will be completely charming As long as you yourself are male. Stick in outdated gender norms and social indiscretion And blizzards that are metaphors, and one important pie Embodying the housewife's clearly blameworthy repression. And also, someone's got to die. We want your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Meaningful and gritty. Give us CanLit. (CANLIT!) Because ennui is witty. Postmodern or historical, with lots of metaphorical And patly categorical bad weather that will fit Into your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Fulfilling expectations, that is CanLit. (CANLIT!) With a smidgeon of First Nations. We don't want your unrealistic shit. Just fill us up with good CanLit. (CANLIT!) For Gothic in Ontario, Don't go and make it scary; oh, No: Gothic in Ontario Should just be kind of twee. If you were born in Newfoundland Just write of unemployment and A broken hero, bent and tanned, Who broods upon the quay. Magic realism's okay If you're from B.C. You want awards and funding, so don't make your story happy, And if it fits a genre, you will find you're out of luck Unless you're Margaret Atwood, and you're not, so take your crappy Formula away; you suck. Perhaps our categories may appear a bit restrictive, But we know what sort of fiction makes this country great. Your otherworldly fantasy may read as quite addictive, But can the average scholarly Toronto WASP relate? We want your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Meaningful and gritty. Give us CanLit. (CANLIT!) Because ennui is witty. Postmodern or historical, with lots of metaphorical And patly categorical bad weather that will fit Into your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Fulfilling expectations, that is CanLit. (CANLIT!) With a smidgeon of First Nations. We don't want your unrealistic shit. Just fill us up with good CanLit. (CANLIT!) We want your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Meaningful and gritty. Give us CanLit. (CANLIT!) Because ennui is witty. Postmodern or historical, with lots of metaphorical And patly categorical bad weather that will fit Into your CanLit. (CANLIT!) Fulfilling expectations, that is CanLit. (CANLIT!) With a smidgeon of First Nations. We don't want your unrealistic shit. Just fill us up with good CanLit. (CANLIT!) Just fill us up with good Can— Barely understood Can— Fill us up with good CanLit!