Somebody asked me why I rag on Shea.
After all, he’s an unimportant cunt,
Isn’t he? I’m responding right up front:
Of course he is. A leader? Shea? No way.
His preaching is a game he’s learned to play.
His heart is vacuous. His wits are blunt.
His prose is backside gas, his verse a grunt.
He has no real commitments to betray.
That’s why he’s so supremely emblematic
Of his whole mouthy, self-promoting class.
A butterball with feces in the attic,
A prissy punk whose every crack proves crass,
He calls forth a reaction that’s emphatic.
It truly is a joy to kick his ass.