Professional Lamenter

I am a professional lamenter.
If you tried to compare me
To an average sob’s splinter,
I’d surpass, lamenting to thee.
How could this be so
That I can lash you with emotion
To such a degree that you glow
At the idea of my notion?
Well, if you compared me to a sob
That cries in the night,
I can make your throat throb
While explaining my plight.
Who throws himself into the devastator
For his body to be sliced;
Who does it like me, the educator
Of lamenting that, his emotions, diced?
I argue that none do it like I;
None can measure to my height
And I can blatantly say why
As I ascend into flight.
Where others slouch,
My back arches like a cat
That is startled from a couch;
I can proudly say that.
Where one cries,
I wail a loud, sorrowful elegy
That is like a siren song, that pries
Into the soul of thee.
Where one lays their arms,
I lash and extend mine
Like whips that would harm
But the action is so divine.
I take pride in the way I wail
Or how I can make your heart tremble;
But I don’t mean to make you pale,
Simply my art is something nimble.
I take pride in the pity your eyes show
Because it means that I am there,
Tinkering at your thoughts, I know
That my cries are hard to bare.
But as I said, none can do it like me,
And none take pride in their cries;
And I can convince you, convince thee
That my body and heart dies.
I am a crier, a wailer, I evoke
A perfectionist lament;
And my art makes you broke
And filled with foreign intent.
So when I lament and beckon my soul
To flog at your knees in the dirt,
Remember that lump of coal
That cried because it always hurt.
I am a lamenter,
None do it better
And none can even splinter
How I make your eyes wetter.
I know my art like the song,
The bones inside me,
And when I make your heart throng
Know the lament was meant for thee.

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