An Elegy for
In the loneliest depths of the web, where the shadows play,
Skulks Dirlewanger, or Dirl, a twisted and sad closeted gay.
A troll with a heart cloaked with anger, fear and spite,
Feebly insulting all he engages, desperate for a fight.
A keyboard warrior, wielding a small, unsharpened sword.
Inept at his obsessive cyber hobby, a cowardly fraud.
His words dull daggers, only dared uttered online,
Yet despite launching flame wars, Dirl flees every single time.
When return insults like arrows come swift through the night,
He crumples and scatters, a plucked chicken taking flight.
To bunkers of silence, he runs away to the battle's rear,
A craven invertebrate troll, with a milksop's heart beating in fear.
“Please notice me!” he shouts from his lonely hovel,
He pretends to be a hero, but is an old lady born to grovel.
He dreams of a life of glory, respect and something more,
But when faced with real competition, he backs out the door.
He thrives in the flame wars, the heat of the verbal clash,
At first bantering ineptly yet bravely, he savors each match.
But when the tide turns, and better return insults start to roll,
He feigns disinterest in the cutting witticisms searing his soul.
“Didn’t bother reading your reply,” Dirl smugly retorts,
As if their words lost their power, as if he tires of the sport.
Suddenly Dirl's active social life calls, he tells an obvious lie:
"I remember a pressing social engagement. I really must fly."
Dirlewanger haunts the forums, to fill his lonely nights,
Crafting his chaos, but perversely fleeing from all fights,
But beneath all the bravado, a sorrow runs deep,
Over a loss that still haunts him, robbing his sleep.
For Dirl's beloved "Big John" blow up sex doll, his treasured lover,
Never mocking his micopenis, for Dirl there could be no other.
His plastic companion was perfect, with realistic facial stubble.
Alas, their shack burned down, and it melted under the rubble.
In the depths of the net, where the sad and lonely convene,
Dirl mourns his losses and dwells in illusions, a sorrowful scene.
For behind every harsh comment, each inept jibe and jeer,
Hides a twisted monster, a moronic troll crippled with fear.
Still, one should pity him, being born to the Portuguese Dirlewangers,
His Múmia kept trying to abort him, eventually they hid the coathangers.
She had little time for him, dock whoring is a demanding profession,
Little wonder Dirl flees the trauma, hence his inept trolling obsession.
Such twisted memories of childhood, from which Dirl can't escape,
His father’s perverse abuse, paternal love expressed via kiddie rape.
Clinging to family traditions, Papai eschewed to use lubrications,
Understandable, if your lineage suffered micropenises for generations.
Dirl's repressed anger erupts like a pimple of festering rage,
Behind all his posts, you see the sad clown weeping on the cyber stage.
When bravado and sneers fade, Dirl's suicide is the inevitable outcome,
Psychologically, who could bend over forever waiting for Papai to cum?
