your priggish mien is too obscene
your loftiness bought with a spoon
you believe you're great
but really your fate
will be to slink back inside your filigreed rooms
your palace won't talk or balk at your  whims
shelter from the minions  to be appeased therein
you'll be safely ensconced on your imaginary throne
though the "stupid" servants must remain
they'll cater to your delusions so puffed up and vain
sycophants, ****-ups, yes-men  you require
ring-kissing genuflecting servitude for the sire
still your convoluted mind is so much muck and mire
owning a computer shan't make you a writer
possessing a library won't make you brighter
having a calculator doth not make a mathematician
dearth of dialectics and paucity of vocabulary
nary ever an orator  or articulate politician
get back in your place witless purveyor of haste
your knee-**** hackneyed spiel lacks fervor and taste
those that admire you are fools for the taking
as contrived and duplicitous  as your majesty of faking