Ha ha, you braggadocio, you blatherskite and swaggerer, with your brains
balanced on the head of a pin and your paltry butt cheeks puckered tight behind
the bunched fabric of your pantaloons. I see you! Ensconced in your rhetoric,
your bombastic displays, Secret Agent Man. Not one could be a satisfactory match
for your perspicacity, of course, privileged prince, glittery Wizard behind the curtain.
How is it that I see you? With the tear in the fabric at the seat of your pants
and the smattering of silliness behind the mask? Not blind then, after all,
are the minions who do your bidding and put the spit shine upon your medallion?
You’ve got more tart than a kumquat, you, and appear as disagreeable as a blizzard
in May. I’ll pluck that arrogance right out from the roots of your sparsely spaced
whiskers and shoo the petulant beast I know as you, shoo you right to the midway
and over the edge into prudery. Funny little megalomaniac, this insolence
your nakedness will abide.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019