They don’t like me, these watchers, these deviant spies,
As they gather some odd private facts,
They’d do better to read my paper column of lies,
To gauge the audience my words still attracts,
And I feel for the others, who feel my new pain,
New tormentors from behind their cruel desk,
Undeserving of breaches of privacy again,
Spinning lies that are ever more grotesque,
Why am I such a subject of their interest?
Just because some people can hear what I say,
In and out of fashion to most, like a dirty protest,
Scared of words, an alternative opinion, all the way,
Do they do it for some gain or mild perversion,
Believing in a cause of noble enmity,
Do they serve their own agenda of mild subversion?
Or are they just in all their wisdom, after me?
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