Prick Perfect

Oh, thank you for the wisdom;
practice makes perfect, eh?

Your irons are fired to infinite heat?
Your dogs never howl while eschewing meat?
Ten and nine thousand some hours
gainsaid expert glibber jibbers,
jabber on to the sweet sound
of "You must be so wise".

Stepwise sentenced case: versed in denial,
it's the poet's centurion who frighted to death,
penned mighty swirls, and pretended to wind.

Named just sown, seedling Johnny eating 
other peoples' apples and tossing legend claims
into fires who can't help share the heat.

Underdone, poorly met, you staked your 
farce's reputation on tomorrow's morrow
to your mark's today sorrow.

Watchwords flail at confident rebuttals,
that's why you've built a strawman house
to tear down at a foment's notice 
and pitch your dents in some other universe.

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