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.