The Chickenhead Was a Bad Design

There's no hypocrisy
Half so rich, half so
Rewarding, half so fun
As finding the hypocrisy
In what others have done.

I can think of a dozen
Contradictions constructed
By my half-assed brethren,
My oh-so human cousins,
But none half-criminal, other than

My own, my glorious,
Ridiculous hypocrisies
Of poetic license and incensed
Ego, my poetic metaphors,
Half science and, in one sense,

Half neotenous theology.
What is wrong with me,
That I can claim that it's the truth
And not the ruefulness of knowing
I disdain? Where's your proof?