Tailored trim with a practiced poise,
He makes a rather spectacular noise;
Citing from books, skipped at school,
He plays the sage to hide the fool.
What a painted stage and grand design,
Where all that glitters claims to shine;
He wades through puddles, calls them deep,
And peddles the dreams he cannot keep.
He weaves a web of borrowed threads,
And sows his doubts in trusting heads;
A silver tongue and a hollow heart,
He twists the truth and calls it art.
So, tip your hat to his plastic show,
Where little sparks pretend to glow;
All ribbon, wrapping, bow and string—
Without a genuine gift inside the thing.
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