Best Popinjay Poems
You've reached the pinnacle of fame
where double-speak's a daily game,
so many words, so little meaning,
popinjay, so skilled at preening.
Posing for a photo-op
your perfect hair a puissant crop,
your perfect smile, a frozen glare
which fools the foolish everywhere.
Demagoguery's designed
to derogate the keener mind,
a smile will hide what lies behind
to mark the downfall of your kind.
Incessant talk that bores you to death.
Nothing of value can be lifted from the conversation.
Screaming inside, wondering how long will the torture last?
Like nails on a chalkboard you can not escape.
The tongue flapping wildly with no coherency.
Wondering if being placed in the same room as him or her is a conspiracy?
Frozen in a state of a stupor without an exit.
The universal word of help is all that you can hope for.
Scanning the room for that invisible door.
He or she is someone that I would like to put on an indefinite delay.
The scientific term for him or her is called a popinjay.
There he goes again trying to pump up the small crowd
in a shrill voice that could be irritatingly loud;
he talks too much and always likes to have the last word,
wanting people to believe each story he told.
He’s a super achiever, at least in his own mind,
born with an inflated ego, he’s one of a kind;
he comes in rather strong and oh too pretty fast
yet in the end finishes up biting the dust!
He’d lost too many fights that he claims he really won,
he lives in a mansion his moneyed wife built and owns;
he could not wait to answer the bell for the next round,
with nary an idea where he is actually bound.
Come election time he will run for a position
and for the _th time it will be his damnation;
again he’ll lose due to lack of name recognition,
not to mention lack of electoral intuition.
The grapevine says he is a trained but failed barrister
who managed to fumble all his cases everywhere,
who, while his own peers are galloping straight ahead,
is lagging far way behind, a certified egghead.
I feel so sorry for the poor dude, I really am,
sad that he turned into a laughingstock, a village bum;
but that’s just the way things are in life sometimes, I guess,
either you get lucky or end up a complete mess.
Who is this insufferable popinjay, you say?
Ah, he could be you, me or just about anybody!
He was a fop, a fool, a popinjay
Man-about-town, too cute and gay
A fashion plate, a cavalier blade
His arrogance riveled an oak’s tree shade
don’t call me a popinjay
makes me want to hop away
an insult every time said May
her face squished up all mean and gray