You rattled around the hills;
You rumbled across the plain;
Puffed up by the grog and pills,
Your striking looks mask the pain.

Haven’t we heard it all before?
The talk, promises and the hope:
You’ll settle – this time for sure -
Help us out, get off the dope.

Here you are talking so big;
A crowd drawn in to your tale;
Should they really give a fig?
You’re heading sure for a fail.

Those that know see only a phony:
A troubled soul trying to keep face;
And true to form, you the show pony,
Spits once, and leaves with no trace.

© Neil Dufty