I won't come up short again, Falling for clichés and praise, Not now nor till the end of days.
I will not roll my weary eyes, Shut ringing ears to truth-based lies; Click my tongue or act surprised, To the shenanigans of home-grown spies.
I will not throw up my hands, But step close to the deathbed rant, And hear the confessions Of the Select's election; The psalms of prophets Who turned sour, Who get ****** for their greed for power.
I am he for whom you search, my manicure suits the crown. I'm not worthy for such honour, To be a prince or harlequin clown. You'll pardon me, If I misspoke, But you missed the punchline: I'm the joke.