Your Friend Wil
Your friends, always honest with you, tell you the truth.
They respond, on occasion, “You’re behaving uncouthly
and had ought to clean up your act.”
You’ve got one in particular, dispenses with tact,
says it plain to your face, his advice unimpeachable.
Feel chastised? Any animal’s teachable.
Any goal’s reachable. Let us embark.
We declare; we declaim; we decry. We remark
that ethics and etiquette have yet to jump shark
(dynamite strapped to them but yet to set spark).
With that in mind, employ each as it lingers.
Keep the phrase in ready reach of your fingers
lest you forget for a moment the edict.
Trap agape, frozen; pull out and read it.
Your friend consistently counsels the same,
urging all dickishness struck from the game.
Your friend Wil
Your friend Wil declares
Your friend Wil declares: don’t be a dick
How’d your friend get possession of the wisdom;
once hooked a headset into wrong system,
listened? Heard what? Cock-a-doodle-dos.
If you think it’s involuntary, get disabused.
It’s you. You do or you don’t, at your discretion.
Your dickery’s untamed? Practice repression.
Act as direction suggests and desist.
Your friends all insist. You come down to this:
got one who warns he could get a little stabby.
That’d be bad form, but he gets a little crabby.
He’s aptly the messenger, hardened of hide.
(What if somebody wrote alt.you.die.die.die?)
If you’d see your adherence assured all the more so,
silkscreen what your friend said on your torso,
wear it out proudly, point and recite.
Any dick walks by got to save versus contrite.