In praise of the sycophant
This is an ode, to you, almighty sycophant, a messenger of mediocrity and vanity, an empty tin to amplify misused words and crippled grammar. I write in praise of you, hard sworn sycophant, you who took a vow with stupidity, that till death do you part. This is not a song of praise but that of pity. It is not a tale of romance on the moon but of heartbreaks in the volcanoes. How long will you lick your master when his mistress doesn’t even bother trying? How long will you become a thing, laughing at malnourished humour and crying in melodramatic emotional catharsis? How long shall you be the one? This is an ode in praise of the sycophant, the loud mouthed fool that spreads toxic propaganda and mal-informed gossip. This is a story, the tale of a fool that runs around naked, his manhood bare for all roving eyes to see, a man who has never known any purpose but that of licking that dark and sweaty buttock. I visited the sycophant in his sty, where he stayed with his pig wife and piglets with green mucus in their noses. I saw the overfed woman and children having mouths full to the brim with the stinking belch of unexploited potential and killer breath. I saw where they wallow, in poverty and want, the true reaping of the trees of sycophancy. This is in praise of the sycophant, the man who feels like one only when he blows his frenzied horn and runs half-naked in the afternoon sun bawling and screaming for a man he doesn’t even know. This is for them, all of them that shout and scream, sing and dance to a tune they do not understand. This is for the sycophant, the little cheerleader that lives like a torch on a moony night, a firebrand in daylight. This is in praise of he with a hoarse voice, a big heart and a lonely brain, of he who has been blessed by furious mediocrity and roaring stupidity. This is for she that shies away from breastfeeding her little one but will whip out her scrawny bags when opinions clash. This is in praise of the sycophant, he who has been paid to laugh his gums out and cry at funerals, the imbecile that mourns others but not himself. This is in praise of the sycophant that fixes a leak in a neighbour’s hut while he’s still lies unroofed. This is in praise of the sycophant, of that celebrated potter that eats from jagged clay. Who will mourn you when you die? Who will sing your song when you can’t anymore? You who lights up the night, celebrated for your childish antics and unbridled insanity, who will dance for you when it is your turn? I pity you, for you have made fans, not friends. This is in praise of a sycophant, a man who lived in the fire but will die in ash. This is of he, the life of the day that will be buried in the night, lonely and forgotten. This is in praise of a sycophant, the tough voice that will be vanquished by the grave, and another one will take its place in no time.
This is an ode, to you, almighty sycophant, a messenger of mediocrity and vanity, an empty tin to amplify misused words and crippled grammar. I write in praise of you, hard sworn sycophant, you who took a vow with stupidity, that till death do you part. This is not a song of praise but that of pity. It is not a tale of romance on the moon but of heartbreaks in the volcanoes. How long will you lick your master when his mistress doesn’t even bother trying? How long will you become a thing, laughing at malnourished humour and crying in melodramatic emotional catharsis? How long shall you be the one? This is an ode in praise of the sycophant, the loud mouthed fool that spreads toxic propaganda and mal-informed gossip. This is a story, the tale of a fool that runs around naked, his manhood bare for all roving eyes to see, a man who has never known any purpose but that of licking that dark and sweaty buttock. I visited the sycophant in his sty, where he stayed with his pig wife and piglets with green mucus in their noses. I saw the overfed woman and children having mouths full to the brim with the stinking belch of unexploited potential and killer breath. I saw where they wallow, in poverty and want, the true reaping of the trees of sycophancy. This is in praise of the sycophant, the man who feels like one only when he blows his frenzied horn and runs half-naked in the afternoon sun bawling and screaming for a man he doesn’t even know. This is for them, all of them that shout and scream, sing and dance to a tune they do not understand. This is for the sycophant, the little cheerleader that lives like a torch on a moony night, a firebrand in daylight. This is in praise of he with a hoarse voice, a big heart and a lonely brain, of he who has been blessed by furious mediocrity and roaring stupidity. This is for she that shies away from breastfeeding her little one but will whip out her scrawny bags when opinions clash. This is in praise of the sycophant, he who has been paid to laugh his gums out and cry at funerals, the imbecile that mourns others but not himself. This is in praise of the sycophant that fixes a leak in a neighbour’s hut while he’s still lies unroofed. This is in praise of the sycophant, of that celebrated potter that eats from jagged clay. Who will mourn you when you die? Who will sing your song when you can’t anymore? You who lights up the night, celebrated for your childish antics and unbridled insanity, who will dance for you when it is your turn? I pity you, for you have made fans, not friends. This is in praise of a sycophant, a man who lived in the fire but will die in ash. This is of he, the life of the day that will be buried in the night, lonely and forgotten. This is in praise of a sycophant, the tough voice that will be vanquished by the grave, and another one will take its place in no time.
Comments
Post a Comment