GLORIOUS ME
Oh, la-de-dah, la-de-double-de-dah.
Just between glorious you and
Glorious me, dear bro and sis,
When I think about it,
I must be quite a guy.
It seems like just about when I began shaving,
They started making me President of this,
And President of that, Chairman,
Vice Admiral, commissioner, Chief,
Councilor, Director and
Heir apparent to a number of other miscast titles.
But for all of that, brothers and sisters,
(And I speak mainly to you young ones who
Covet such grandiose and puffed titles,
And the implicit warrant of power they
Seem to guarantee)—
It is all bullshit, or more politely stated,
Nitrogenous waste, as my ninth grade
Biology teacher used to call it.
If you have more than two cells in your cranium,
You’ll soon find this to be true.
I’d rather breathe in the satisfyingly clean
Smell of a well-groomed cat, perhaps
To earn a strain of purring in the key of C,
Or hear the wild bird’s appreciative song,
In gratitude for the freshly filled feeder,
Than ever again be forced to endure
The inexorable joint stupidity of a
Committee in endless session, leading nowhere,
Meeting without end—amen. .
Boreegard
