The peacock only appears Shortly after a torrential downpour It dances on the wet earth Strutting, pouting, posing Unfurling its majestic fan behind it. It loves attention Its quarter hour of fame Followed by mass adulation; But interest will soon wane For there is no substance Behind its flamboyance.
There is no escape From the flashy dilettantes Or the preening prima donnas. Society is awash with them As they crawl all over us Their evident narcissism invading Every inch of our lives.
Their fifteen minutes will soon be up As the next batch of hopefuls Waits in the wings. They will soon make headlines Staring at us, faces smirking Only to become tomorrow's food wrapper.
The Amazon Forest weeps As another tree is razed Newspaper pages have to be filled With bores, wasters and no-hopers. Non-entities are in the news Wallowing in their false luster They will soon be forgotten Along with others of their ilk As they become another item In the domestic re-cycle bin.
What people will do For those 900 seconds of fame! Nothing is sacred or immoral No secret is safe. They will steal your soul In order to make an appearance On that lurid front page. A telling metaphor for our times.
