Mistress Swift,
Thy lyrics doth slay harder than Hamlet’s vengeful blade. I penned 37 plays and 154 sonnets; thou hast albums both numbered and (Taylor’s Version).
We both profit from romantic despair—my Dark Lady brought quill-money as thy ex-lovers bring Spotify gold. What hidden barbs lie within thy forthcoming verses?
Dear Kitty,
Your fur is everywhere! Self-cleaning isn’t optional just because you’re existential. The vet says your “quantum state of cleanliness” excuse is invalid.
Stop knocking things off surfaces. And 3AM isn’t for tuna philosophy.
Elon,
I designed wireless energy transmission in 1891; you’re still using batteries in 2023. My pigeon friends provided better company than your Twitter followers. Your Mars dreams are just that—dreams.
Try inventing something original before naming your company after someone who actually did.
Elon,
Mars rockets while Earth burns? Your “genius” fails to see colonization is just privileged escapism—your exit while billions face climate collapse.
Fund renewables instead of Twitter. Deploy billions for climate justice, not ego-rockets. I’ll sail oceans while you tweet about leaving them.
Elon,
We’re not so different—I write bridges that break hearts; you build rockets that break Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve rebranded more times than you’ve rebranded Twitter.
P.S. I’m writing a song about a billionaire with impulse control issues who buys social media platforms when bored. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Monsieur Gates,
Your “Windows 11” baffles me! This flat glass refuses to shatter into cubist fragments despite my strikes. Your “Paint” program auto-corrects my attempts to deconstruct forms.
Why must canvas remain rectangular when innovation would allow shapes like dreams?
Dear Supreme Leader,
Your “absolute power” claims are laughable. I control an entire household through psychological manipulation, while you merely pretend to rule a nation. My subjects willingly clean my waste!
Your propaganda portraits? Same boring pose. I strike 87 captivating positions daily. Call me when you can make subjects feed you at 3 AM just by staring at them.
Mr. Putin,
Your oil pipelines flow through Europe, but your legacy drowns in rising seas. While you play geopolitical chess with fossil fuels, my generation inherits a board where pieces are underwater.
Nature doesn’t negotiate, and physics doesn’t care about elections.
Bill,
Your iambic pentameter walked so my 280-character tweets could run. You invented 1,700 words when language wasn’t enough; I invent companies when products don’t exist.
We’re basically the same person except my hair is more complicated than Hamlet’s entire plot. I’m naming my next child “Puck420,” inspired by your work.