A letter of complaint to R. Kelly regarding "The World's Greatest"'s lyrics

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r_kellyDear Mr Kelly,

I wish to complain in the strongest terms about the advice you dispense in your paean to self-belief, “The World’s Greatest”.

“If anybody asks you who I am,” begins the chorus. Presumably you mean “if anybody asks you who you are”, because not once has a person approached me and enquired, “I say, do you know who R. Kelly is?”

Everyone knows who you are, Mr Kelly. We’ve all seen the pictures.

Assuming your advice is therefore aimed at me, the listener, I must inform you that it is spectacularly poorly-judged:

If anybody asks you who I am
Just stand up tall
Look ‘em in the face and say
I’m that star up in the sky
I’m that mountain peak up high

I took your advice for a little while, Mr Kelly, and I am here to tell you that you are no Tony Robbins. No sir. You are no Claire Rayner. You are not fit to wipe your anus with Mariella Frostrup’s Dear Mariella column from The Observer. No siree bobbykins.

I was asked who I was as I went to pick up some cinema tickets the other week, so I straightened my posture accordingly and, without breaking eye contact, casually mentioned that I am a star in the sky, a mountain peak up high, and so on and so forth. My cinema tickets were withheld, by companion was dismayed and I was embarrassed.

In my eagerness to see the movie I missed, I downloaded it illegally. You caused that. You’re killing Hollywood with your lyrics.

A couple of days later another person asked me who I was. I was at the doctor’s surgery for an appointment to have a rather painful growth taken care of. When asked to identify myself, once again, I foolishly took your advice:

I am a giant
I am an eagle ooh
I am a lion
Down in the jungle

Curse you, Mr Kelly! Curse you if I wasn’t asked to leave and this growth isn’t now impeding my ability to vault security fences.

The final straw, however, came when I called my mobile phone network to top up my credit. I had an afternoon of busy phone activity ahead of me, what with a whole host of new “text-chat-flirt” numbers recently added to my contacts. I called my network and, what do you fucking well know, the first thing they ask is who I am.

Mr Kelly, what do you think I told them?

I am a marching band
I am the people ooh
I am a helping hand
I am a hero

Let’s just say the only flirting I did that day was with thoughts of suicide.

Having talked it over with a few people I’ve taken the decision to stop following your advice. While I seek another song to guide me in my life, I hope you’ll have a good hard think about what your lyrics have wrought and write your future compositions accordingly.

Quite unkind regards,

My Chemical Toilet

PS: You can’t fly.

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