His Very Soul

"Don't be an idiot," I told my friend
As he was making faces at the screen.
"You wonder where he came from, where he's been,
And how much money those producers spend
To find a chump like that. I won't pretend
I understand," he said. "I see the sheen
On his clear forehead," I admit, "between
Odd hair and half-crossed eyes, a dreadful blend."

"I hate the way he looks, the way he sounds,
The way his nose and shoulder bones protrude,
The sort of blank air his remarks exude,
His very soul," my friend exclaimed. Great mounds
Of smoke came from his head. "His fame redounds
To outer space," I told him. "Don't be rude."