He was the man of the hour, exploited
darling of the literary world, at least
that's what everyone said.
We were fortunate to be honored with
his presence I was told, as he was
usually booked months in advance.
With that Ichabod Crane countenance and
resonant voice, he was an impressive
figure, no doubt about that.
And then there were those fireman red
suspenders, and lets not forget the
feather in his french beret.
Slowly he mounts the dais, confidence
exuding from every pore, posturing before
his adoring audience.
Poised, assured, bowing, scraping to the
applause of his adoring public, this
paragon of intellect begins!
The booming voice, pregnant with feeling,
vibrates, trembles, and soars, literally
saturating the senses.
He gyrates, gestures, eyes wild, hair on
end, he collapses onto the floor, long
arms and legs waving in the air.
And from the mouth of this illustrious
scholar, spewed volumes of rambling,
absolute drivel.
I laughed and laughed and ... but only on
the inside, maybe because I remember the
story, The Emperor's New Clothes...