Like Batman

 Like Batman

 

Oh yes, I’ve been seen at pictures

using my given gift of second sight,

flicked through the nudes, read captions,

watched your world in wrung actions

and seen those manly specs you wear

that make you look like Batman.

Well, the only thing she’s robbing

is your future but that’s OK, though,

because what the world needs now

is some bright spark to reheat

an old and shaggy crock of shit:

Here trots Alfred, and he’s bats

on women dressed as leather cats;

suits with steel pressed armored nipples

the size of bolts. While you’re crippled

with yet another piss poor origin story,

penned by hacks, low budget, low rent,

don’t whine at me about codependent.

Back to basics - can I be Joker?

The Penguin, then, or Mr Freeze,

write thoughts in solid blocks of ice

from frozen soul captured clickbait,

here’s looking good, here’s feeling great,

rehashing a hero’s journey in masks

and witless shots. You cannot move me;

your cape becomes you: out of pity,

out of spite, hit like - a defiant projection

of spooling stock and rewound reels,

driving drunk behind a set of wheels

until your Batmobile is put in dock. Fine,

Poison Ivy’s into rainbows now,

and will hear the case, if there’s time

in between cutting thick skin into shards

with gut shredding hard diamante.

A tale told so many times, it’s a chore

to see it silver-screened - becomes a bore:

look here’s the Batcave’s hidden door,

feel free to exit because I need more.