Gregory Talsteed was a clever boy,
You’d hardly recognize he’d reap
More pelf than brain
Than his musings of art long penned.
And his peers, of course, esteemed well
Of Gregory’s speak, a mess that prattled
Like sweaty, swollen feet
Bound by gauze of sour rhetoric.
Today’s read was never his fancy,
Not by a great man’s reverie
Of ghostly ambitions, failed
Into pointless green lights.
‘Inquire me not of mainstream speak;
The work has merit and praise
Yet fell victim, yes,
To the common man’s study.
Speak to me of paradise
A notion that lies here on this side;
Read and revere,
It’s the man’s Animal House.’
Five more minutes class, five more!
‘My turn, my turn, I can discuss:
I enjoyed it much, I liked it a lot
As Buchanan is I, two alike,
Just as the red pilled male I am.’
Class, are we done? Are we ready?
‘Better you than men like him
Be bashed and betrayed
By the bimbos in white
As blonde as the white man’s wife.
Why, the men you dream cannot be real,
Red-pilled be cucked by Gats?
You can’t have both!
Be objective, love facts, you cannot think.’
Who’s ready to share! Who can discuss!
‘Dumbass! Not true! Gats was the cuck!
His life to a woman? Tom knew was inferior!
End it now, your argument stinks,
As men unlike Gregory cannot think!’