Who knows himself a braggart,
let him fear this,
for it will come to pass
that every braggart shall be found an ass.
His name was Lewis, was in a Big Business,
son of a freemason, he was L O U D.
I found him lewd, one to avoid,
the oily type of Tory, plump and puce of face,
everything about him was whizzbang, pop,
over-stuffed, high on emotion, like in the song.
A true braggart, he indulged in boastful talk
spoke in iambian speak so everything was ee-an
as in Ital -eean, Christ – eean, Boston – eean,
Had been to Cambridge and to crown it, you’ve guessed it,
he was an old Eton – eean, chauvinistic to a fault.
He didn’t walk, he lolloped,
in such an ungainly manner,
a cliche from a bad novel
the part in a play no man would covet.
I thought my sister’s marbles must be missing
but did my best to be polite and pleasing.
The hours passed but not fast enough;
I wanted the evening to shrink.
I wanted to shrink.
My favourite Irish proverb
things are never as they seem
was for once proved wrong.