The stanza was quite pleased with himself, so much so, he took a puff from his hoobastank of a Cuban cigar and exhaled three smoke rings. I must interpose a moment, for I have been trained as a musicist.

Musicist
/’myoo/zi/səst
noun
a person who shows or feels discrimination or prejudice against styles of other music, or who believes that a particular music is superior to another.

“That musicist claimed Tears For Fears was his favorite band, ergo, he was bogus.”

In short, stanzas are typically pompous assholes. In long, stanzas smell like curry and eight days of sweat. They are judgmental and always wrong. They are as lazy as a summer day is long. Let me tell you this, if they aren’t robbing you, they’re thinking about it. Stanzas will not think twice in killing you if they can benefit from it in the slightest. True story: I saw a stanza shoot a man dead, so he could step on the corpse to get a better view of a bloody car accident. With this musicism out of the way, I shall continue.

The stanza was sitting in the back of the lounge, boasting of his stanzaness to anyone who would listen. With pretentious precision, he swirled a snifter of cognac and held it just below his smelling hole. [FACT CHECK: Stanzas do not have “noses” very much like their genus counterpart, the Progressive™ box mascot.]

Proof.

Never in anyone’s life was there a roomful of this many disinterested people. The stanza was not aware of his status, but this is very typical for “them”. He was concerned with only his agenda; nothing else mattered. I don’t have to tell you how shitty self-centered people are. Okay, Larry, this is just for you. Self-centered people are so shitty because they will easily destroy others in order to get ahead one space in the line. Some famous self-centered people: Donald Trump, Adolf Hitler, Batman, and that woman at the deli.

The front door burst open. It was a riff. Everyone, excluding the stanza, was instantaneously transfixed. And why not? The riff was short and sweet, catchy, sexy, and modest. Even though it was repetitive, it drove home a very delightful point without being obnoxious. And please, don’t get me started on that beautiful shiny hair, oh my God.

As soon as it entered, the riff was lifted up and praised by everyone. For no good reason at all, they all sang “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow”. The stanza fumed alone, as his cigar smoldered and went out. He had never been offended by a song like this, each note a stab, jab and punch rolled into one.

MORAL: Show, don’t tell.

Riff