The Blatherskite -- Mae Scanlan

The Blatherskite

We all know that unpleasant type
Whose constant mantra is self-hype.
At night, or noon, or break of morn,
He blows his own unwelcome horn.

The man's amazingly adroit
At boasting of some daft exploit.
He puffs his chest, and smirks, and preens,
And brags of his distinguished genes.

His fav'rite pastime's dropping names;
He's filthy rich, or so he claims.
He reeks of phony upper class;
His wife says he's a pompous ass.

His litany of skills and talents
Throws a body quite off balance.
Music, science, art, whatever,
He's its star.  He's so damn clever.

What a nuisance!  What a pest!
A person who is so obsessed
With self can drive one up a wall,
And  cause one's skin to creep and crawl.

He struts about, his head in air,
Of our annoyance, unaware,
And tolerates us lesser folk
As being a genetic joke.

His virtues, many; faults, minute;
His vanity is absolute.
What you have done, he's done before.
He's such an unremitting bore.

One asks for fortitude to cope
With onslaughts from this dreadful dope.
And more important: special wisdom,
Needed when confronting his-dom.



Mae Scanlan