There walks this man in loud shades
With restless hands and digital parades
His attire shouts in awkward flame
As if loud colours could craft a name.
The dawn begins with the glowing screen
Till late night, the same flickering sheen
Each petty thought, each passing plate
He offers up for public attention and weight.
A fierce critic of the order and state
Yet colour-blind to balance, deaf to weight
Merrily scorns the rulers, mocks the age
So often find faults in every printed page.
Very often his judgements lean one way
Like the weathercocks that seldom sway
He squabbles loud proclaiming self-wise
Though envy flickers through his eyes.
Among his confrères he will fume and fight
Then crowns himself in borrowed light
And underneath his clamorous art
Lives the quiet bruise of a shrinking heart.
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