“Everyone Wants to Be Kyle”
Oh, everyone dreams to be Pallo, it’s true,
At five-foot-two with a wonky-eyed view,
He struts through the parks with a swagger so bold,
Drives a BMW that’s fifteen years old.
He mooches from family, from roommate, from friend,
The gravy train never seems to quite end.
He’ll flash you a card—Enchanted Lorcana!
As if it’s a crown from the courts of Verona.
He whispers of Rolex, his ultimate prize,
Certain the world is consumed with envy’s eyes.
(Though the only thing shining, if we must be fair,
Is the grease in his unwashed, bedraggled hair.)
His scent wafts around like a villain’s perfume,
A mix of old cheese and a sweaty locker room.
Yet still he proclaims, with a grin kind of smug,
“I’m the blue-eyed young buck, the ultimate stud."