Colin F. Jones

ARROGANCE MOLESTED

That tyrant arrogance with its self important prop
Makes infant thoughts that will not seem to stop;
Invade the matureness of his pricked balloon,
From where stale air swarms in to fill the room.
Still clinging to the microphone now unplugged,
His voice in whispers from its higher volume shrugged,
Squeezes through the lane-ways avoiding streets,
Lest the cause of his laryngitis there he meets.
‘Tis astonishing how childish men of arrogance are,
When you clip their wings instead of their cigar;
They melt like snowmen in the Summer Sun,
From seething over something that was never done.
It is sorrow we do feel who respect their post,
For we could never dwell in the illusions they do host.