Fellow Workers
Behold the mighty ego on two feet,
Whose brain is missing, though the suit is neat.
They walk around like kings of empty space,
With pride and panic painted on their face.
They talk for hours and say nothing new,
A one-person trash heap leaking out on cue.
Their grand ideas are small, absurd, and old,
Like yesterday’s stale soup left in the cold.
They open up their mouth to spin a tale,
Of how they fought a shark and rode a whale.
A walking billboard for a cheap brand name,
Where every minor errand wins them fame.
They brag of wealth they simply do not own,
And broadcast status from a cracked cell phone.
The room falls flat, the yawns begin to spread,
While they crown themselves inside their head.
They climb a molehill, screaming it’s Everest,
Convincing no one that they are the best.
A golden trophy made of painted tin,
All empty echo from their throat within.
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