Puppy on heat

Puppy on heat
Ah, the absurd dance of existence,
Where you, dear puppy on heat,
Prance about like a drunken philosopher,
With a degree in futility.

You strut through life as if the universe
Owes you a damn thing,
Barking your judgments like revelations,
Handed down from gods—
When in reality, they’re just the echo
Of your own hollow howl.

Your wit, if I dare call it that,
Is like a blunt knife—dull, ineffective,
Only useful for spreading your nonsense,
Like cheap butter on the toast of ignorance.

You mistake your bark for a bite,
But all you are is a loud noise in an empty room,
Hoping someone will mistake your echo
For a conversation.
Social awareness? Manners?
Those are for the thinking,
For those who know life’s a cruel joke,
And have the decency to laugh at it.

You, however, stumble through absurdity,
With the grace of a three-legged donkey
In a ballet.
But don’t worry, puppy—
Your lack of cleverness is almost endearing,
Like a bad joke that somehow keeps getting worse,
Until it’s funny again. Almost.

So please, keep yapping.
It’s amusing in a tragic sort of way,
Like watching someone try to solve a Rubik’s Cube
With their feet.

Correct you? Why bother?
The universe already did,
And look how well you turned out.