How many blowhards talk too loud
as they spout long-winded platitudes
meanwhile dissolving, like a cloud,
depleting themselves with attitudes?
They heed not the passing terrain
as they spend their ephemeral lives
spouting gusts, gales, and spittle rain
to topple temples and shake bee hives.
They’ve much flative outrage to vent
as their stormfronts tumble overhead,
the thunderheads soon having spent
their fury unto silence, instead.
TV broadcasts them far and wide,
their squall line of faces puffing up
with outrage from which none can hide
as tornadoes spin in the teacup.
Sirens wail, the vortices spin,
and the National Guard is deployed
while we cower in shelters when
the blowhards battle, and are destroyed.
Then the radar clears, and the map,
as red pixel patches drift and fade,
but I can hear the thunderclap
of yet another blowhard’s tirade…

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