/lit/ - Literature

His father was a drinker
And his mother cried in bed
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts
When the swingset hit his head
The neighbors they adored him
For his humor and his conversation
Look underneath the house there
Find the few living things
Rotting fast in their sleep of the dead
Twenty-seven people, even more
They were boys, with their cars, summer jobs
Oh my God

Are you one of them?

He dressed up like a clown for them
With his face paint white and red
And on his best behavior
In a dark room on the bed he kissed them all
He'd kill ten thousand people
With a sleight of his hand
Running far, running fast to the dead
He took of all their clothes for them
He put a cloth on their lips
Quiet hands, quiet kiss
On the mouth

And in my best behavior
I am really just like him

Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid

>He didn't attend his country's most prestigious private grammar school.
>He didn't read Homer's classics along with Shakespearean works such as The Tempest and Julius Caesar in his first year of high-school.
>He didn't learn Greek, Latin and another compulsory European language.
>He wasn't prescribed the works of James Joyce by the age of 14.
>He didn't play polo or even fence.
>He doesn't now live in Trinity College, Oxford studying a bachelor of literature and law.

I bet you guys don't even go to a top 20 global university, why do you even bother calling yourself intellectuals?