Conceit

A Poem

A mimic mind is mine,
Parrot-esque is my speech –
As foolish as a philistine’s
And proud enough to preach.

Others think me wise,
They commend my seeming wit;
I cry "T’is a disguise,
For your praise I am not fit.”

"And humble” they reply,
“An exemplar of good manner.”
Their medals I deny,
None adorn my banner.

A doleful and deceitful man
They unknowingly applaud,
An artificial artisan
Whose art is fickle fraud.

Life: forced
For those endorsed
For my discourse,
A selfish source.

Laughter: mimed
For jokes ill-timed
For fear that mine
May not out-shine.

Love: pretended,
For none intended –
For favors lent,
To sender sent.

I am wrought 
By what I thought:
A mind unreined
And feeling feigned.