Mr Pride S. Dust

Self eulogy is an ill choice
Its a steep down the slope
The arrays of pride-scope
Kidnaps commonsense to a cleft

An inflated stream
Only attracts sharks for massacre
When the sun blazes with its imperious steam
It exposes its shallow character.

The Agama touches down from a flight
And nods in victorious euphoria
Pounds on poison garnished locust
Suddenly the nods become a disturbia

Eyes at your medals, be brief!
E-mail the glory upwards
In an eye's flap breath will be sniffed
Odes will be sung, tomb epitaphed-
"Mr. Pride S. Dust: 1566-1655"

'Hello!...yea. I can only sell for 5million'
'What's the name on the particulars?'
'My younger brother's'
'Who?'
'Pride S. Dust!'

Life goes on...