The man- boy with drainpipe trousers
Talks too much
He claims the title of “empath”
And we know
So often narcissists hide behind a kind face
His is transparent and whorls with hipster beard
I hear the rub of his insincerity
Like familiar chaff
How easy to see the game pieces
When from the stage you step back
I am tired and old
I am young and quick
I am neither witness nor undertow
But some approximation of emotion
Observing sand-dial without taking turn
Til his upstart urges ego
To fill space with his lust to be seen
I let him know
You may have some fooled but I hear you gobble
Fat as Thanksgiving goose
Sucking all the air from the room
Hungry in unsalted desire to hear your own voice
Like a spoilt little boy, thin on holiday treats
And I long to switch you off with a flick
That others may speak and consider
Instead of your incessant bearded drone
Convinced you are humble prophet
why are the least, the ones who believe themselves the most?
Such delusion winds your faulty key
No words can find together to fabricate
The proof of your concave mouth
Slurping sound like a tin penny whistle
In years to come you may learn
When you meet a young version of yourself
Less is more
Save the pompous for Charades
Cut the roast, Pat the dog, be thankful for not
Gloating on naught