The Braggart

Who knows himself a braggart,

 let him fear this,

 for it will come to pass

that every braggart shall be found an ass.

William Shakespeare

 

The Braggart

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.

 

Cait O’Connor