That I have been what the sages deemed a dipshit

is not at this point up for debate. For I have dipshat

via many exploits, many modalities, many choices,

too many to unpack here in the splendid courtroom.

I’ve come to bring Her Excellency’s awareness unto

the futility of her exercise. For though I am honored

by Her generous attention, I regret I must refer Her

to the annals of my dipshiterry so as to give Her fair

warning should She continue to pursue Her course.

What She has heard about my make-out strategies,

while true & flattering, paint an incomplete picture.

The gardening, as well, was temporary, but enough

in its intimations of humility & devotion to become

folded into the other identities that combined create,

especially considering their fraudulence, the dipshit

kneeling here before Her, begging Her to reconsider

what the dipshit considers a romantic but ultimately

misguided philanthropism. For the dipshit deserves

no such thing. For the dipshit is best left to his own

devices: the lonely dipping, shitting, as the sages, in

their mysterious design, intended. Her time is far too

valuable—& mine, though I hoard it like the dipshit

that I am, is not (as I am its) mine.