Transatlanticism

You’re vain, you’re pompous and I hate the way you parade

I hate the way you walk into the room and relegate everything else to shade

I hate how you talk, with excessive pace

I hate how your words, with your thoughts they race.

I hate how the benchmarks I set for myself are the ones you’ve set

I hate how every trophy runs to you like it’s your pet

I hate how you win, how you win all the time

I hate how my losing makes me want to rhyme.

I hate that you’re there, I hate when you’re around,

I hate all your words; I hate all your sound.

I hate your presence; it irks me to no end

I hate how this hate is a thing I can’t mend.

I hate your face; I hate your voice,

The fact that you’re in pain makes me rejoice.

I hate how you swagger; I hate how you walk

But most of all, I hate how you talk.

I hate your impudence; I hate your skill,

I hate how we’re similar but you’re better than me still.

But then, “hate” is just such a strong word.