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Poem

He's pomposity personified, never defied.
His vanity is all-in, his shameful glory spied
As he stands before an audience, gawking upon
An emperor smug, unaware he has no clothes on.

He is unclothed, uncouth, unhinged, a folly dud fake.
He thinks he's something, but he's not, with nonsense at stake
The cracks in his facade are there so easily seen.
The bluster, bravado are all those of a has-been.

He's clearly a fraud, an empty shell, a hollow gourd.
He's so pompous he's first to draw, last to sheath, his sword.
He bloats on every word, he boasts and brags, about him!
He craves the gaze of eyes that dote on his every whim.

But deep down, he feeds off the shallow praise of strangers,
For those who know him well, know too well of the dangers
That occur when ego is stuffed with pomposity
To make an enormous atrocious monstrosity.

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