Oh, to be a mediocre man

Who praises himself for nothing that’s particularly special

Like, inheriting his skin and his name,

Or riding the coat tails of his father’s successful

Disregard of those who didn’t match himself.

Oh, to feel the superiority he feels

Though he probably hasn’t worked as hard as

Any woman in the room

Where he sits enthroned in his fiefdom of pride

For himself and the legacy of easiness

That he will pass on to any son he has.

Oh, to be a mediocre man

Who can speak to anyone any way he wants to

Because his temper is power instead of weakness

And his lust is expected instead of deviant.

Oh, to have the freedom to be as casual

With your words and deeds as he is

Knowing there will always be someone ready to defend

Whatever misdeed he commits or misstep he takes,

And who will believe what he says

Simply because he’s the one who said it.

Oh, to be a mediocre man

Who can exist solely for himself

In a world specifically built for him

And pretend that he deserves the special status

Put upon him by men who were just like him.

Oh, to be a mediocre man.