Why is there me rather than not,
as if the slipper animalcule were not enough,
even if only recalled from the bygone, coarse syllogisms
of my birthplace, to allude to an obscure pen warrior,
known perhaps to a few highbrows in the Slavic literature department here and there?
Obscurity is actually what everyone should aim for, by the way.
But that’s just me, I guess. After all, fame seems to be the currency
that buys the much-desired immortality
of tomorrow’s bog roll.