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After we go ‘round again,
I’m sorta smug. I blivit.
My friend throws up frustrated hands
Saying “O man, just forget it.”

And later when I understand
The point he tried to make;
I know myself as a mental gnat
And an intellectual fake.

Yet I somehow cannot quite accept
The wisdom of the regence,
I have to make up my own mind
Despite obvious deficence.

And so I always end up
on the horns of this dilemma:
I cannot trust authority
Nor can I trust my menta.

I truly do not mean to harm,
My only real defense
Is Hanlon’s Razor rephrased
‘I’m not mad, just kinda dense.’