A certain kind of music gives me pleasure.
It enters my body though a secret door
With a snobbish gentleman for a butler
That lives in my soul,
Equipped with eloquent speech
And a pretentious smile,
Sporting a neatly pressed Armani tuxedo
With his nose turned up in the air,
Ready to turn away my welcome guests
That didn’t appeal to him.
Music of what he deems “inferior quality”
Is beneath his dignity,
His approval rating
That he set for his highfalutin self.
My involuntary approval is my butler,
My unwanted discerning feature,
My label that was given to me, “A Snob,”
Which I didn’t have anything
To do with, but he did.
My inherited label disassociated me
With mainstream music.
That butler reached into my contented self
And dictated to me
What kind of music to listen to.
I was born to love all kinds of music,
But he segregated it into styles
And made me a lover of only one:
I blame him for what he made me into,
A highfalutin snob that is too uppity
To lower himself and
Find pleasure in all kinds of music.
This is my testimony of
My musical preference.