A beast drives our strange compulsions
And after, we wallow in revulsion.
But secret be told,
We love it uncontrolled
And recoil from thoughts of expulsion.

Proud Richard was blessed with a slick wick.
With Snapchat he’d click, click, and click.
But finally he learned,
After each spurn and spurn,
Ain’t no one be wantin’ poor Dick’s pic.

I examine my failures at home.
Just faux pas, for which I atone.
I see no success,
Yet smile; Acquiesce.
Familiar impostor syndrome.

“Philosophy,” cawed out the magpie,
“And selflessness, I claim to live by.
But in truth it’s for naught,
For my soul has been bought:
Without my silver, I would die.”

You have to hit the ball from where it lies. But you don’t need to use the same club. Or, if you think deeply about it, even a club at all.