Ben the Brownnoser

I'd like to tell a little tale
Of Ben the Brownnoser,
He might have even gone to Yale
If he would smell of roses.

I met him one delightful night,
He said he was a writer,
"And I write poetry.  You and I,"
I said, "are both fighters!"

He looked at me and slyly smiled
And sealed our friendship gaily,
Oh!  He was full of charm and style!--
I still regret it daily.

I gave him all!  My mind, my heart!
He praised my work, he listened,
He seemed so noble at the start,
So virtuous and decent.

But it was never meant to be,
For Ben the Brownnoser
Was laughing deep inside at me
And all my dreams of roses.

Now he strolls with a giant rump--
A pleasant-speaking skunk--
Bragging of all the broads he humped
When he was mostly drunk.

And in his notebook he writes,
Like an insurance clerk,
Some new statistic of the night
With a sarcastic smirk.

He wrote a paragraph on me
And read it with a sneer:
"He's a spiteful Russian! He
 Can't even buy his beer!"

I give you more than you're worth,
For it's not worth a dollar
To be a worm inside the earth--
Not a writer but a dullard!

Oh yes! You get your precious A's,
O Ben the Brownnoser!
You even manage to get laid
Without wine or roses.

But if you ever really see
The things that I'd written,
You'd realize that I'm free
From all your lies and glitter.

There is no secret to my words,
For as my tears flow,
I say what can't be said or heard
And teach what can't be known.

Rejoice!  Rejoice triumphant Ben!
The room is full of laughter!
Perhaps one day I'll find a friend,
One day in the hereafter.

                                  November 18, 1990
                                --Alexander Shaumyan