They asked me, “What is conceit?”
And I said, “Look to your feet.
See the flowers growing there?
Smell that fragrant, floral air?
Now smell this fresh-laid cow dung
and, before you wag your tongue,
realize how the flowers grow
to perfume the winds that blow.
You may disdain such cow shit,
but flowers may grow from it.
You think humble pie smells bad,
but it’s not the worst I’ve had.
Nothing gags me like conceit,
reeking so I cannot eat.”

The Big Garuda

A self-proclaimed bird king
pilfering from the aviaries
of more exotic birds; a fledgling
whose unwieldy crown varies
with each random feather
accrued covetously and slipshod
and glued slapdash together
so as to appear a magnificent bird god,
despite having used rank refuse
from many bird cages to bind
together his tasteless ruse:
he is not unique among his kind.