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Big-Man-In-Waiting

I stand before the mirror and practice my speech,
It's a long speech that I must myself teach,
To speak with a fake Oxford accent and inflection,
A speech that would say nothing yet rumbles on,
Falling on deaf ears that trigger automated applause,
I practice so that if I can believe that so was I born,
Then maybe the world would believe it's no con,
soon the world would see,
witness what I'm meant to be,
but till then,
I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting.

Because I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting,
I practice hard everyday,
I wear arrogance like an expensive suit,
Spic and swank, black as soot,
with a matching hauteur black boot,
with which I step on toes everywhere I go,
I wear pride like an offensively bright tie,
and reek of extravagance like cheap perfume.
Though I'm not a big man yet,
I'll surely be one,
Till then, I need all the practice I can get.

I'm learning to be fashionably late,
to throw tantrums about little things that don't matter,
like the temperature of champagne and it's taste,
like the position of the dessert fork and wine glass,
like the napkin is satin not silk of the finest class,
like how the lobster is not bright red enough,
like the onion is not in rings but in halves,
I'll shout at the poor waiter and say,
“I WANT TO TALK TO THE MANAGER.”
Even though I'm yet to eat in a hotel,
I've gotten so good no one could tell.

I'm a Big-Man-in-Waiting so I behave as such,
I misquote Shakespeare and speak archaic English,
I hang out with other snobs I don't like much,
discussing fictitious business plans,
quoting random percentages as inflation,
pretending I understand the economy,
complaining about oil prices and recession,
and whining about how kids of today got it easy.

Now I am a Big-Man-in-Waiting,
but soon I'll be money tasting,
and egotistically coasting,
having had enough training,
I won't look too out of place,
when I'm a Big Man and no more in waiting.

*****March 3, 2011*****

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The Vulture does not eat grass.
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