The author’s submission to Patrick Dubuque’s ridiculous Villanelle Challenge concerns less a baseballing theme proper and more the cursed insolence of Dubuque himself — and also, it turns out, the entire world.
Hey, Patrick Dubuque: you’re not the boss of me.
Did you consider that before assigning me an effing villanelle?
In point of fact, I’m the boss of you. Literally.
Nor, I should note, is that modern Caliban, Dayn Perry,
Author of two books, the better of them merely serviceable.
Let’s be clear on this point, too: Dayn Perry isn’t the boss of me.
Who else, so far as this matter is concerned, requires clarity?
David Temple? Baumann? Blachman? Perhaps Smith, as well?
Regard the nameplate on this expensive teak desk: I’m the boss of you. Literally.
It has often been said with regard to Great American Carson Cistulli
that he is virile and talented and handsome and virile.
It has never been suggested that anyone is the boss of me.
“You’re not abiding by the villanelle form very rigorously,”
a nervous sort might submit with regard to the present and inspired doggerel.
Of that same reader, I assure you I’m the boss (ahem) literarily.
“Give me liberty, or give me liberty”:
That’s the only ultimatum of which I’m capable.
Hey, whole entire world: you’re not the boss of me.
In fact, I’m the boss of you — although just metaphorically so, in this one case.