I praise you.
For your own perfume—
because if you can’t be their boyfriend
then at least they’ll smell like you
For tours sold-out in five minutes
and the medics on scene
to carry off the girl in the front row
who passed out
For your celebrity clothes line—
of plain purple t-shirts,
with your face
front and center
For sweeping hair—
perfectly set,
on the crest of your eyebrows
For infiltrating the radio—
with the incessant call of
“baby” and “oh”
For a hundred YouTube videos—
from hysterical fans,
passionately obsessed
with every part of you
For the success of Proactive—
only because you were on their commercial
For being Canadian—
a fact learned
on your Wikipedia page
For the pollution—
of every DJ speaker
that ever existed
For teaching the world—
to never say never,
in the implied context of fame
and fortune
and good looks
and perfection.
For every girl—
too young and too old
who will waste her life
clinging to you
For your latest Twitter post—
re-read over and over again.
For driving me to insanity—
with your high-pitched voice
and your ridiculously cheesy
and pointless
and torturing repetitive music
For the overload—
of searches for your name
on Google images
For all the relationships you will have—
and more so,
for the millions of failed ones
For being on the top headlines—
when world hunger isn’t
For your make-up artists—
and your designer jeans
and your limo
and your priceless contract
and your diamond earrings
and everything else—
that is fake.
I praise you
Justin Bieber.