Really, Daedalus? Feathers and wax?
You have to be the thickest brick
in the entire Athenian tool shed,
to think a few melted Yankee Candles
and the feathers out of a bunch of pillows
would make suitable raw materials
for homemade, single person aircraft.
Did you, like, not have the internet
My testicle is more intelligent than you.
The stuff I blow into a Kleenex
makes more sense than you.
Daedalus, you old, incestuous,
did you even weigh your son
before telling him it was time
to impersonate a chicken mascot
over the Greek Ocean’s waves?
That must be why your parents
called you Daedalus; they were afraid
that out of your amazing stupidity,
you would make your own son dead one day.
You probably didn’t even go through
an oral phase when you were a baby.
Jesus Christ, Daedalus, your son is dead
because you couldn’t be bothered
to do some homework and read up
on what the Wright Brothers did.
Did you tell Icarus that if he ate
Pop Rocks and soda at the same time
he’d grow big and strong, too?
Boeing would so never hire you, dude.