I wrote like a storm and still had to watch Lord Byron act like a brand in human form. by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Says the man who turned every dinner into a manifesto and every balcony into a tragedy.

Mary, please, I was making art, Byron was making eye contact with himself.

Both of you are unbearable, but Percy does leave drafts everywhere and Byron leaves impressions everywhere, so I’m not choosing a winner.

Final verdict: one of you is poetry, one of you is perfume, and neither of you can survive a group chat.

At least my edits fit on one page, Percy.